Like Pale Fire
by lirance
Summary: “Godric walked across and Salazar pulled him down, and they moved like pale fire.” Harry finds it’s all too easy to slip, and the past is bleaker than he believed. Mild het and mm slash, nongraphic but implied sex. Now complete.
1. Fire

First posted 14-10-07. Reposted 22-05-08 with minor revisions. Don't worry if you've already read it- the changes are only very minor, and for my peace of mind more than anything.

* * *

**1996 AD  
**

It was cool in the hallway as he stared down at his shoes. Shadows whispered across the polished wooden floor, flickered over the verdant green plants, the tiny white and gold flowers, the glass paned windows. The scent of lavender polish and fresh pollen hung in the air, curling through the still room, notes of perfume rising from the mist.

He shifted one of his feet aside to look at one of the scratches in the floorboards. The voices on the other side of the white painted door briefly rose, then softened once more, indistinct and muffled. He didn't dare to move from his spot to listen, the overall impression one of a statue, dim and motionless in the dark hall.

Finally, there was a click as the door swung open, and the scent of freshly brewed tea and stale biscuits wafted out to meet his nose. The woman sniffed as she stepped over the threshold, resplendent in crisp blue, gold gleaming at her neck. A powdered hand gestured imperiously, and the boy shuffled out of the hall, frayed bag hanging from his hand as he slowly opened the front door and walked outside.

He paused before closing the door behind him, but the woman motioned again, impatiently, and he shut it with a click. It began to rain as he hurried away from the house, miserable little splotches of drizzle, splashing down into his hair. Freedom. Was this what it smelt like? Tiny flowers, wet grass, the freshness of spring.

He smiled for the first time and walked out of Privet Drive, savouring the scent.

* * *

Darkness. Harry Potter crouched down in the shadow of a towering oak tree, set his bag down, and wiped the rainwater from his face, shivering. He smiled grimly. So it had come to this, had it? The Dursleys had finally cast him from their door, at long last, and he found it difficult to care.

He opened the battered rucksack and rooted through the contents. They had permitted him two minutes to gather the necessities from his trunk. The rest had been burned, all but the Marauder's Map, his parents' photo album and the invisibility cloak. With a sigh, he looked at the space where his wand had lain. His uncle had splintered it with bare hands and a bleak grin.

Harry glanced at the rest of his meagre possessions. A bundle of hand-me-downs, an old blanket, a battered torch and a twenty-pound note. His aunt had assembled the collection for him, grimacing the entire time, with the stern instruction to wait until he had left Surrey before he starved or froze, preferably somewhere on the Northern side of Siberia.

Well, he intended to oblige her wishes. Harry had no desire to live out the remainder of his life anywhere near his estranged family. Dumbledore…he frowned. Dumbledore would cosset and baby him for as long as possible. He didn't hate the headmaster, or even particularly dislike him, but Harry had a keen sense of self-preservation. He knew that he desperately needed to earn some independence and practical experience before he went rushing after Voldemort again, a thing that Dumbledore would never allow.

That, and a powerful desire was stirring his bones, the urge to leave everywhere familiar, to find a new place and forge his own life. The wind tasted fresh and green in his mouth as he contemplated his next move.

* * *

The grove was cool and dark, full of rustling leaves and fresh clean soil as Harry stepped into it. Pale beams of sunlight dappled the canopy far above, the grass whispering beneath his feet. A tiny spring bubbled, clear and cold, ringed with iridescent green dragonflies, a soft breeze rippling the edge of the water. It felt…still. Peaceful.

He had no idea why he had come here.

It had been…an urge, an insistent little spasm in the corner of his brain that had murmured, _listen_, and he had heeded it. Now, he stood in the grove, feeling like a fool as he shifted from foot to foot and glanced around nervously. However, the sunlight and the rushing whisper of the spring calmed his nerves. It was a lovely day, and Harry slowly relaxed as he began to appreciate it fully.

He set down his bag and sat in the soil, fingers trailing in the brook or through the grass as he rested, leaning back against one of the shadowed trees. After a few moments, he noticed a tiny notch etched into one of the roots, too sharp and fine to have been carved by anything but a thin-bladed knife. Harry let his eyes drift over the dark, crumbling bark, and, unable to stay his hand, reached up to brush it.

A breath later, Harry Potter disappeared from the world.

* * *

**991 AD**

When Harry opened his eyes, it was to see another boy lying beside him, slumped on the hard packed dirt beneath their backs, dressed in grubby, torn clothing, face bloodied. He risked a glance upwards to see a pale sky through the fingers of dark, twisted trees, the scent of snow and mud thick in his mouth.

Groaning, Harry sat up slowly, realising with a jolt that he was still in the same clearing, no longer rich, verdant and shaded in warm green, but bleak and faded. It wasn't possible to imagine someone splashing in the blackened, ice-rimmed spring, or unpacking a picnic on the scorched, filthy earth… Scorched. It had been put to the torch. Glancing around, Harry could even see the remnants of tar-smeared brands and oil soaked rags scattered across the hard ground.

…The ache that clenched in his head was far too powerful for Harry to ponder such mysteries. Instead, he turned to the boy that lay beside him. Perhaps thirteen years old, hair a coppery tinged summer gold, stained with thick, slippery dark mud, the rough tunic he wore ripped. Blood was splashed across his pale face, and his breathing was shallow and slow.

Harry instinctively reached for his wand, shivering when his fingers wrapped around only air, and tore a strip from the bottom of his t-shirt. His backpack had disappeared. He wiped some of the blood away with the cloth, frowning when the older, drier patches wouldn't fade, and finally uncovered a long, jagged wound across the younger boy's forehead, as thick as his thumb, and reddened.

Swallowing hard, Harry sat back on his heels and tried to remember his aunt's first aid lectures to Dudley. He would need to clean and staunch it. He glanced at the cloudy spring with a dubious expression, sighed, and began to collect firewood. Boiling sterilised it, right?... He certainly hoped so.

Five minutes later, he gathered together his bare pile of thin sticks, and groaned when he realised that he had no idea how to light a fire without matches or a wand. Harry bit his lip and racked his thoughts. Eventually, the ancient memory of primary school lessons stirred, and he dimly recalled learning how to light a fire with flint. The teacher had been fined for health and safety after that, he remembered with a wince.

It took another ten minutes. He was faintly aware that he had probably broken about twenty medical do's and don't's, but Harry had little choice. He knew from his earlier trek that the clearing was at least two-hour's walk from the nearest road, and whilst he had grown somewhat, he definitely wasn't strong enough to carry another person that far, not even a child.

Fingers scraped raw and bleeding, scorched in places by hard sparks, Harry finally managed to nudge a tiny flicker into the sticks. Oh. He needed something to put the water in. A moment's search revealed a small scrap of bark with a hollow in the centre, and he was able to slop some of the icy spring water into it, spilling it several times. By the time he managed to wipe the rest of the blood away from the younger boy's head, Harry was sure that the St. John's Ambulance corps would set him to washing bedpans for a decade after his messy, careless medical antics. He tied another strip of his t-shirt around his 'patient's' head and sat back to think.

The change in season had to be due to magic, he was certain, but why would a wizard or witch use tar and firebrands to burn this place, rather than a well-placed 'incendio' spell? Mm. Exhaustion, perhaps, or maybe they had lost their wand, yet it seemed unlikely. Someone who had gone to such lengths would not be so careless as to fall at the final hurdle, he was certain. And what had their aim been? To burn the boy beside him? Why not just use a curse or a knife?

Sighing, Harry pushed more sticks into the fire and waited.

* * *

The moon was pale and faint in the sky when his 'patient' woke. Harry, startled out of a restless slumber, sat up quickly and grabbed the boy's arm. The child, also shocked, shrieked a string of gabbled words and tried to yank his limb away. Surprised and a little hurt, Harry moved away, frowning as he realised that his patient had spoken in a different language. Now wouldn't _that_ complicate matters.

A flicker of pale fire, cool and sharp and _burning_, whispered across his skin. Magic. Abruptly, the boy's words snapped into sudden focus.

"Get _off_ me!"

Harry raised his hands and said slowly, in placating tones, "I'm sorry. Look, I let go of you."

The boy blinked and narrowed his eyes. "You're one of the Muggles, aren't you? I wouldn't let you burn me, so now you want to trick me." He snapped out his wand. "Well, no."

Clenching his jaw and cursing his uncle, Harry snapped, "I'm not a Muggle. I'm a wizard like you."

His patient glared, but there was a thread of uncertainty slipping through his voice. "How do I know that?"

"Say I really _did_ want to kill you. Don't you think that I would have done it already whilst you were unconscious and unarmed?"

Finally, the boy said, in a low voice, "Alright. I guess so." He pressed his fingers to his bandaged head, and winced slightly before ploughing on fiercely. "What's the incantation for… a summoning spell? Or for a darkness spell?"

"Accio and nox," Harry parroted obediently, gaze still upon the wand pointed towards his head. The stranger was no older or larger than a third year, but there was a certainty and a sharpness in his eyes, the blue of midnight skies, or the shadow of steel.

Apparently satisfied, the boy lowered his wand, and Harry was reminded that, for all his sureness and caution, the person facing him was still only thirteen. A lopsided smile on his face, the child said cheerfully, "The name's Godric. Godric Gryffindor."

Harry was unable to stop himself from snapping, "Excuse me? I bandage your wounds, sit through your interrogation, and now you give me a false name?"

"False?" The boy's eyes hardened once again. "If you're going to take that tone, you can leave. Now."

Sighing, Harry tipped his chin up and replied, "Well, it's not exactly a common name, is it? There's only one wizard with _that_ name."

"Yeah, me," the young Godric sniffed.

"I see. So _you_ founded Hogwarts a thousand years ago and became a world famous wizard. Is that it?"

"Hogwarts? What a foolish name," the boy replied smartly. "Never heard of it."

"Wait a moment." Harry hesitated, mind grasping the idea, turning it over in his head, desiring to fling it away and ignore the world around him. "What year is this?"

"Well, I don't really know, but the grown-ups all say it's, uh- 991 years after the birth of our Lord."

He said it so plainly, like a child repeating a times table learned by rote, that for bare seconds Harry did not realise what he had said. "991AD. I'm in 991AD."

"Ye-es," Godric said after a moment, looking a little worried. "991AD. You do remember, don't you?"

"Godric," Harry said slowly. "What would you say if I told you that, by some accident of magic, I have travelled back one thousand and five years in time?"

"Liar," the boy replied promptly.

"Yes," Harry sighed. "I had a feeling you might say that."

"So, what's your name?"

That pale fire flickered, and it was as though someone had cast an imperius curse upon him, painless and far more potent that anything Voldemort had ever devised, as invisible threads moved his tongue and forced out his words.

"Salazar Slytherin."

* * *

"And you're quite sure that this is it?" Harry stared at the crumbled, hand-painted sign, wedged between a dusty clay pot and almost entirely shadowed by a large awning. Ollivander's Wands.

London had been a terrible shock. No longer a cosmopolitan scattering of sleek glass and metal, no longer a smoky, vast sprawl, but a low, huddled ruin, the fallen Troy, the fragment of the Roman occupation. Londinium was abandoned. Only a few huts and this shop remained.

Godric snorted impatiently and grabbed at his arm. "Come on, or the Muggles will see us."

He dragged Harry through the low, dingy doorway and into a shabby room, mud and wattle like all of the buildings, with a few boards of wood shoring up the walls. Inside stood a small, gaunt man dressed in a stained dark tunic and bent over a worktable. As they entered, Ollivander rose and flashed a bare grin at them.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Not another wand lost, I hope, master Godric?"

Godric blushed and shook his head quickly. "No. No. One for my friend, please."

The wand maker frowned and glanced at Harry, eyes narrowing. "No, I don't know you, sir. I don't have a habit of selling my wares to strangers."

Jaw dropping, Godric yelped, "But- but-"

"I gave my answer," Ollivander said calmly.

"Is there anything I can do?" Harry's head was numb, blood drumming in his chest. He wasn't sure if he could bear having to rely upon Godric for much longer. He _needed_ his own wand.

Ollivander raised his eyebrows and looked at him with a serene expression. "Mm. Let me think." He began to murmur to himself. "Young, but powerful, mm, as much as Godric will be someday. _Looks_ like a decent young man, but what are looks in this world, other than a tool, mm? Alright, I have a suggestion."

Both Harry and Godric nodded quickly, caught unawares by the sudden shift.

"I always need an apprentice. Someone to fetch the glue and watch the books, that sort of thing. Mm… you can read, can't you? Yes, a rare talent in this age. What do you say? You earn your keep, and by the end of six months, I'll see about that wand."

What choice did he have? Harry glanced towards Godric, who shrugged helplessly and nodded. "I'll do it."

**993AD**

"Damn it!" Salazar set aside the small whittling knife and cursed, staring at his bloodied thumb in disbelief. He had even smeared some onto the fine chestnut wood that he had been carving. But two years of apprenticeship to Ollivander had taught him both patience and calmness. He wiped the cut off on one of the rags, waited until it stopped bleeding, and continued whittling.

There, nine inches. That felt about right for chestnut. Harry measured up the two halves, and then checked the boxes above his head. One, two, three, four. Unicorn hair. He plucked two from the wooden crate and measured them carefully, before slipping them into one of the halves and picking up the glue. It didn't take long for it to set. He put it into a box for enchantment, picked up his quill, and wrote in the book at his elbow, _'Wand number 217, nine inches, chestnut and unicorn hair, two strands, eight and a half inches long.'_

His initially short apprenticeship had become rather longer. After Ollivander had helped him to make his own wand, the man had rather wistfully mentioned that it would be very hard without his assistant, and Salazar would be really be very good at this trade if he stayed for a little longer.

Salazar drew out his wand, and smiled. Willow and basilisk scale, ten inches, number 01. He had been _proud_ to write that in the record book. Still smiling, he opened up the box of wands ready for enchantment, and began to cast. He had almost finished when there a creak, and Ollivander stepped into the doorway, face troubled.

"Salazar, I-I have something to tell you."

Worried now, Salazar lowered his wand and waited expectantly.

"You see, my son- I have mentioned him, haven't I?- well, he was always more interested in battle magic, but recently, he's decided that he fancies trying his hand at wand making, and he _is_ rather good at it, and I'm very sorry but-"

"I need to leave," Salazar replied calmly. "It's alright, I was waiting for this anyway. Thank you, Ollivander, for everything." He smiled brightly. "And good luck."

Two hours later, he was on his way with his wand and a purpose. His apprenticeship had been good for him. He had finally learnt how to speak Anglo-Saxon without the help of magic, he had a new wand, a trade, and possessions. Now all he had to do was find Godric. The other boy had found work with another wizard, a swordsman who had been thrown out of the king's service when his 'talents' had been discovered.

His friend was waiting at the gates of the city for him, also wearing a wan smile as he leaned against a rotting wooden post. Godric raised his eyebrows as Salazar approached. "Let's trade sob stories. Selwyn said I'd been here too long, that I need some experience. In life, and all that."

"Ollivander's son wanted to move in. No space for me," Salazar replied glumly.

"Well," Godric said with painful brightness. "Let's take the high road."

* * *

Dawn broke cold and clear. Salazar shivered in his blankets and managed to sit up, grateful for his thick cloak as he pulled it on. Beside him, Godric groaned loudly and sank down further into his bedding. Snorting, the older boy cast a quick ice hex, and watched as his friend flung the blankets away with a shriek.

"Bastard!"

Rolling his eyes, Salazar rose and stretched, yawning in the chill air. A quick search through their packs revealed a chunk of bread and half an apple, bartered from a widow in return for mending her roof. He tore both into two pieces and began to eat his share as Godric moaned and winced and snarled threats.

It had been three months since he had left Ollivander, and they were yet to find another place to stay. They had been farmhands, mercenaries, odd-job men and criminals, but no one had wanted them for more than a few weeks, and their food supplies were running low. Salazar frowned as he finished his meal and handed his friend the other half of the food. There was another town up ahead. Perhaps they would find work there.

It was a futile hope, swiftly and suddenly crushed. The next town was a charred, shattered ruin, the raiders' footprints still pressed into the dirt. Nausea spread through Salazar like a sickness. Bloodied, twisted bodies were flung into the mud. They had taken the young men and women as slaves, and butchered the elderly and the children. Houses were scorched and blackened, smoke still curling into the still, stinking air, ugly rats squawking and screeching as they darted hither and thither.

Beside him, Godric moaned and vomited loudly. Salazar clenched back his own horror and revulsion as he slowly walked forward, ready to snatch his wand from his sleeve. There, the body of an elderly man, curled around two children and a baby. Here, a cooking pot, melted in the flames, still half-full of potage stew. Nothing stirred other than the rats and the flies.

Wait.

A flash of yellow.

Salazar walked forward silently, creeping around the curve of an untouched hut, hearing a soft voice sob. A girl, perhaps eleven years old, with curling corn blonde hair and wide golden eyes, flinching back from the large, brutal faced man who stood over her, a heavy, pitted sword in his hand.

Rainbows shattered along the blade as it rose in the sunlight. Salazar barely moved. "Avada kedavra."

The only thought that pierced the numb haze was that he'd never killed someone before. Wished it, wanted it, never done it. The girl's scream snapped through his terrified horror, and Salazar's gaze darted down to her. A bruise gleamed on her cheek, and blood clotted in her hair, but she was safe and whole otherwise.

Salazar slowly slipped the wand back into his sleeve and knelt down beside her, blinking back the tears. He had other things to think about. "It's alright, you're fine."

She stared at him, and finally smiled. Salazar could see the steel in those eyes beneath the desperation and the fear. "I know."

He felt the ghostly wings of her empathy shimmering across his mind, and nodded. "I'm Salazar."

"Helga Hufflepuff."

Salazar bit back his momentary horror and smiled. This was edging on surreal.

They left the bodies burning, a single cross marking the entrance. Godric took the dead raider's sword, Salazar the dagger. Helga simply spat on the body's groin and smiled grimly. _Ghoul thieves_.

**997AD**

So this was Scotland. Salazar stared out at the desolate hills, the pale sky high above, the dark smudges of trees across the horizon. It would have been wild and wonderful had Godric and Helga not been chattering happily about the merits of badgers at his side. Rolling his eyes, he continued to walk.

Was there a real Salazar Slytherin out there? The thought both chilled and warmed him. He wasn't fit to be a founder of Hogwarts, and the notion of someone else lifting the burden from him was blissful, but what if the real man behind the name was furious that someone else had stolen his position?

"_Snake!"_

Salazar spun round to see Godric, pale and feverish, staring at an immense snake, black coils shimmering sapphire in the weak sunlight. It truly was beautiful, almost six feet long, and as sleek as spilled oil, with poisonous yellow eyes. It's tongue flickered out, almost in a smile, and it hissed languorously at Godric, _'Foo-ol. You are much too large for me-e to swallow whole.'_

'_Leave him alone. He's afraid of snakes.'_ Salazar had not intended to do anything, other than possibly grab the other two and run, but somehow, the slippery syllables were suddenly falling from his tongue, and he was still standing there in the road.

The serpent looked amused, grinning with a lipless mouth. _'Oooh. Speak to me, snake wizard. Speak.'_

"Hey!" Abruptly, a figure broke the crest of the hill. A slim, dark haired girl of perhaps seventeen years, eyes as bright as witch hazel. She was breathing heavily when she stopped beside Salazar, a wand in her hand. She glowered at him. "Don't you hurt that snake!"

"Wasn't intending to," Salazar replied coolly, and turned back to the serpent. _'Do you have a name?'_

'_You may call me Amos'_, it said haughtily. _'Not, under any circumstances, Selwyn or Siaran, or any other names beginning with 's', or I'll bite your kneecaps off. Understand?'_

Salazar nodded slowly. The strange girl at his side looked both intrigued and a little mad as she listened. Suddenly, she said, "I'm Rowena. Rowena Ravenclaw."

Pale fire. The final fragment.

**1000AD**

"Mm, Sal-azar."

The wizard didn't look up from his book as he snapped, "What is it now, Helga?"

"We should do something, you know."

"What, breathe?"

"Sal! We should do something for the children, I meant. Wizarding children. It-" she shivered briefly and gazed at the sky. "It was so hard for us," she whispered. "We're here now, but it took so long and it _hurt_ and- We should help the children to learn magic. No more hiding. No more scraping by. Not for them."

He had known this conversation would come, had felt it in his bone, in his heart. So why was it so difficult to find an answer? Finally, he said, "Ask the others."

"And if Godric and Rowena say yes?"

"…Then we'll do it."

**1003AD**

Salazar stepped back and stared up at the castle. They had done it. They had built a Norman castle in the middle of Scotland, and laid it with enchantments of cloud and flame and snow and earth, grounded it in blood and bone and flesh. In just three years. He hadn't known he'd had that magic within him.

"What shall we call it?" That was Rowena.

"Hogwarts", Godric breathed, with a smile. "Let's call it Hogwarts."

**1008AD**

It was cold in his house, cold in his head, cold in his heart. The final fragment of Harry Potter shattered as Salazar Slytherin closed his eyes. Beside him, Amos curled up in the bed, but remained silent. He had never hated Muggles, never that, never never never. But that _woman_... he had lain with her, loved her, _known_ her, and she had slipped a knife between his ribs, hissing _demon, witch, monster_.

Could they truly blame him for gazing at every Muggle with barely buried anguish and fury? He didn't want to _destroy_ the Muggleborns, never that, but their parents and brothers and sisters were in his mind already mixing the tar and lashing together the brands. Muggles had almost burned Godric alive when he was eleven, and only the man's instinctive magic had spared him.

They couldn't let the Muggleborns into the school. Couldn't. And he hadn't meant to leave the basilisk egg there, really, he _hadn't_, and oh god was Myrtle dead yet was she dead yet and he was a _monster_ he knew the future knew the past and he had just killed a girl he was _demon witch animal ghoul thief_.

And now they had all left him. His house was colder than Hogwarts.

Godric, there, in the doorway. It had been two years- really, two years?- and there he was, copper tinged gold hair shining. There was a wan smile on his face.

"Come back."

Godric walked across and Salazar pulled him down, and they moved like pale fire.

**1996 AD**

Salazar groaned softly and blinked in the bright sunlight. Odd. His house wasn't that- oh. Oh. The clearing. Terror clenched at his heart. Now, when he had finally- Godric's arm was slung across his chest, and the other Founder was sleeping quietly, Amos curled around their feet. Godric's kneazle kitten was also tumbled in there. He couldn't have travelled forward in time, not with passengers. He smiled in relief, then gazed across to see a crumpled empty packet of Walkers' barbecue crisps and a crushed Hobgoblin bottle, and froze.

He whipped out his wand and muttered a quick tempus spell. 7:47 am, 31st July, 1996 AD. His sixteenth birthday, ten hours before his younger self reached this self. And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

His path had been miserable, bleak and cold, full of guilt and unhappiness, but it had been _necessary_. Would Hogwarts have even been founded without him? Perhaps Godric would have been found by the Muggles, and killed. Perhaps the raider would have murdered or enslaved Helga. Perhaps Rowena would have sat in her house in Scotland with her books and, one day, gazed out over the pale lake and wondered why her life was empty.

It was with a sharp, cold ache of dull misery that Salazar drew his knife and carved a notch into one of the tree roots, and sealed his darkness once more.

* * *

Reviews are always welcome : )


	2. Glass

Contrary to predictions, part two is up  I don't know how long this sudden burst of inspiration will last, so I'm taking the coward's route. Each chapter will be capable of concluding the story in itself, so that even if my ideas run out and I really can't write any more, I can still label this as 'complete'. Hmm. Does that make sense?

* * *

_It was with a sharp, cold ache of dull misery that Salazar drew his knife and carved a notch into one of the tree roots, and sealed his darkness once more__  
_

* * *

The boy touched the tree root with a wondering expression, and disappeared. Salazar closed his eyes. Finally, he opened them, gave Godric a wan smile, and sat down slowly. The other man had initially been incredulous and little irritated, but not even he could deny this particular truth for long, and he had half-guessed it anyway. 

Was he truly Harry Potter any longer? Truly that bright, oblivious boy who had bumbled through one adventure after another? He wasn't certain. He didn't look much like him. Years of wandering and pain had left him with a nature of tempered steel. He was taller now, almost six foot, and still slender and wiry. Long, ink dark hair spilled over his shoulders and down to his waist, his eyes a pale, wintry green, flecked with silvery-grey. He had lost much of the youthful resemblance to his father, face harder, almost hawkish. The scar had almost faded.

Godric was worried now, although Salazar attributed at least half of it to the sinuous black snake that was regarding him with sleepy yellow eyes. He turned away and bent to search through the backpack his younger self had left. A map, a photo album, a silvery cloak, a Muggle torch, hand-me-downs and an old blanket. The 'gifts' from his aunt, he swiftly incinerated. The other possessions went into a pouch at his waist, charmed to have infinite capacity.

With a smile that was a little too wide and a little too bright, he said, "Shall we?"

Sighing, Godric muttered something under his breath and pulled Salazar into his arms. "Fool."

They stood like that until the Order of the Phoenix arrived, wands blazing as they finally traced the path of their errant charge and found Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin embracing, a black snake and a kneazel kitten at their feet.

Dumbledore was at the head of the pack, blue eyes almost incandescent, fading to anguish and bewilderment as he approached, and sensed Salazar's magical signature. Gesturing sharply for the rest of the Order to remove themselves, the Headmaster lowered his wand, gaze unsteady and hurt.

"Harry?"

Salazar pulled away from Godric and said calmly, "I don't go by that name any more. But, yes, that was once me." A quiet translation spell flickered from his fingers across to the other Founder.

Glancing around, Dumbledore looked at the notch on the tree root, examined the air. "Time magic. And compulsions. You travelled back in time…_why_, my boy? Who were you that it's so _important_ that you do this?"

"Salazar Slytherin."

The elderly man blinked back tears. "How could you become- _him_?"

"I do not care for what you are implying," Godric said coolly. The Founders had their squabbles and their schisms, but they were lived, ate, worked, loved together, and insult to anyone of them was tantamount to high treason. "Salazar is a good man, and it is not your place to condemn him."

"A-And who is this?" Dumbledore looked as though he didn't truly want a reply.

Salazar said it carefully. "This is Godric Gryffindor, Headmaster and Founder of Hogwarts, and my friend and lover."

The other Headmaster looked relieved, and then ashamed. Salazar did not blame him. A thousand years of dark, bloody whispers, murmurs of treachery and hatred, did not lead to a happy, sparkling reputation. The word of a Gryffindor counted for far more than the word of a Slytherin. Yet Salazar was pleased that Dumbledore had the grace to feel guilty about his preconceptions.

Godric remained silent after that, preferring to listen as Salazar said quietly, "I suppose the question is, what now?"

Dumbledore swallowed, hard, and finally replied, "We always need a Defence teacher at Hogwarts. Unless you'd prefer Potions-?"

"That was always Rowena's subject," Salazar said self-deprecatingly. "I usually taught History of Magic."

His old teacher looked as though he had momentarily tried to impose new ideas upon an old world, and found himself trapped halfway between. "Oh. Well, Professor Binns retired at the end of last year, so perhaps-"

"Perhaps."

* * *

Salazar sat upon the wide bed in his quarters, Amos at his feet, as he watched Godric murmur incantations and mutter curses. They had not been lovers in a long time, not for six years, and it was faintly awkward as the other Founder, by some unspoken accord, brought his possessions across to Salazar's chambers in Hogwarts. They had joined through loneliness and grief, and parted in melancholy. Now, they united once more. 

He wondered if Godric would ever find out about Myrtle.

…Well, Salazar would find his warmth where he could. Even if he _burned_, Godric never lacked heat. Far too much anger and misery clenched inside that head, behind the bright smile and the casual mien. Muggles had tried to torch him at the age of thirteen, and it was as though the spirit of the firebird had remained within him…

With a flick, he turned his thoughts to other matters. He had taken few of his possessions with him when he had left the other Founders, most remained in these rooms, and preservation spells- probably the work of Helga- had left everything intact. He opened the copy of the History of the Magic syllabus that Dumbledore had given him.

_The professor may choose from five different subject areas:_

_Merlin and the Birth of Magic Pre-476 AD_

_The Dark Ages 476-1000 AD_

_The High Middle Ages 1000- 1300 AD _

_The Late Middle Ages 1300-1500 AD_

_The Modern Age 1500 AD- present_

Sighing, he began to note down the list of books under the heading of _The Late Middle Ages_- Binns' favourite historical period. After a moment, Godric sat down beside him, and Salazar reached for him.

* * *

Grimmauld Place wasn't as he remembered it. Still dank, dim, and redolent with misery, yes, but the Order had made an effort. Someone, probably Molly Weasley, had applied some industrial strength cleaning charms throughout it, and added more windows and skylights to lighten the gloom. 

Salazar stepped inside cautiously, Godric on his heels, and followed Dumbledore into the shadowy kitchen. The elderly Headmaster settled down in one of the chairs and conjured a tea set with a fixed expression on his face. He had insisted that they reveal the fate of Harry Potter to the Order. Perhaps he was now reconsidering that decision.

"Harry-"

"Salazar… if you please."

Would the other man ever lose that glimmer of shattered hope, that dash of sunlight across broken glass? Harry Potter had not been a sweet child. He had not been whole or fair or selfless or clever or innocent, and Salazar had laid him to rest a long time ago. That was a ghost _(ghoul)_ that he did not need.

Dumbledore hesitated, finally continued. "Salazar, would you be willing to meet Ron and Hermione again? I know that they will probably seem like- children, now, but it _is_ important."

It was several breaths before Salazar nodded. To see his friends, no longer brave and fantastically intelligent, but simple students, two of the boys and girls whom he taught, scolded and watched over. They would be children to his eye, two children with bright, naïve faces and silly ideas. Could he bear to see two friends whom he had loved reduced to that?

They entered quietly, Hermione clutching her wand and Muggle music player, Ron with a comic tucked under his arm. They looked confused, a little bored, as though they didn't understand why Dumbledore had called them to meet these strangers and, unless the truth was exciting, they didn't really care.

Salazar stared at them until Godric nudged him with an amused tilt of his mouth and took his hand under the table. Hermione, a short, bushy-haired teenage girl with an over-confident, nervous demeanour. Ron, a gangly boy, clumsy and rude. He had never really seen their faults before. Yet, within, there was still that deep well of affection. They had fought together, lived and loved together, and he could see the flicker of those distant friends in their eyes, the manner in which they held themselves, waited quietly.

Dumbledore sighed, steepled his fingers. "Ronald, Hermione, thank you for coming. Please sit down." He paused, sipped at his tea. The others all stared as he drank, the only person to touch the tea set. The cup clinked as he set it on the saucer, the sound sharp and hollow in the silent room.

"What I am about to say to you is very difficult to explain." He glanced around, swallowed more tea, as though gulping down Dutch courage. "Yesterday morning, Harry's aunt threw him out of Privet Drive. He then… disappeared. The Order followed his traces to a small clearing, where they found fragments of compulsion and time magic."

The obligatory gasps, the pale faces. Salazar shifted, feeling vaguely irritated, and felt Godric's hand tighten around his own.

"In short, Harry was sent back a thousand years, to the time of the Founders. He matured to adulthood and assisted in the building of Hogwarts."

Was that jealousy in Ron's pale eyes?

Dumbledore swallowed, hard, and looked into the shadows. "He became Salazar Slytherin. And, at the age of 33, he found himself transported back to that same clearing, where he cast the spells that would transport his younger self to the past, and so fulfilled the circle."

Ron looked as though a sickness had clenched around his throat and sunk bloodied fingers through his spine. Crack, crack. At his side, Hermione had dropped her wand and music player to the floor with a clatter, and was staring hard at the floor, hands twisted into fists, hair falling down into her face. A single tear shivered and fell down onto the fabric of her jeans, staining the blue denim dark.

After a still, bare moment, Salazar said in a tight voice, "I suppose that makes this a reunion."

No one responded. Ron leaned down to pick up Hermione's wand, and bumped into her arm, both choking out awkward apologies, and the clanks as Dumbledore twisted his teacup around on his saucer, round and round and round and round, shattered in Salazar's ears. Perhaps he should not have agreed to this.

He would have left, would have walked out of Grimmauld Place and out of London and out of England, had Hermione not looked up at him and smiled through her tears. "I'm glad you're back, Harry."

And, as much as the mention of his old name ached, as hackneyed as it was, Salazar realised that he was glad too

* * *

Ron's bedroom was silent as the three sat on one of the beds, Salazar in the middle, and held one another. It was not a consolation, because it was too late for that. When they finally spoke, they did not shout or scream, and when it was finally over, they did not cry. Salazar did not apologise, and somehow, they were all friends at the end. 

It was Hermione, leaning in on his right side, who said softly, once all was said and done, "Did it hurt to be so alone in a strange world?"

"Yes," Salazar said, just as softly.

"I'm glad that you weren't scarred."

"But I was."

Ron lifted his head and stared curiously. "But- that was the time of Merlin, right? You must have been happy."

"Sometimes, Ron." Salazar smiled sadly. "No, Merlin was a very long time before the Founders, and magic had almost been forgotten. It was dark, hard and painful, and it took a long time to find anything meaningful."

"Yet you did," Hermione said calmly.

"Yes, I did. I found the other Founders, a home… I suppose that I found myself," he mused. "It's almost amusing, really, that I lost myself in Harry Potter and found my identity again in Salazar Slytherin."

Neither of the teenagers beside him laughed. Ron paused and said quietly, "And you left a basilisk there… didn't you?" There was a tinge of accusation there.

Salazar looked away, out of the window, down at the dusty floor. "Yes, I did leave it there, and I did tell it to find Muggleborns and destroy them." He didn't give them a chance to respond, but plunged straight on. "And, yes, it was a dirty, monstrous and filthy act, and yes, I hate myself for it. But…" He hadn't even spoken to Godric about this.

His voice was faint. "I felt… empty, as though I would disappear if the sunlight touched me, and I just wanted to be _real_ for a moment, and I _hurt_, and I spent the whole night afterwards wondering if Myrtle was dead yet and-"

Godric, standing just before him, and startled looks on Ron and Hermione's faces. Salazar was rarely vulnerable. He let the other man hold him.

Finally, the storm passed. Salazar smiled wanly and Godric stepped back. "Apologies. Especially to you, Godric, I-"

The other Founder stared at him for a long moment, before finally smiling back and sitting down on the bed opposite. Salazar's old bed, hard and musty smelling, still made up in plain white and hand-stitched coverlets.

He steeled himself. "Godric, these are two of my friends from- well, my past, I suppose. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Uh, Ron, Hermione, this is Godric Gryffindor." He flashed a bleak grin. "Founder of Hogwarts."

Both Ron and Hermione looked as though they were uncertain whether to be elated or stunned. Salazar Slytherin had been a distant, half-familiar face, one who they almost understood, but Gryffindor was a truly mythological figure, entirely alien to their world of cauldron cakes, homework assignments and quidditch games. There was the same relief that he had glimpsed in Dumbledore's eyes.

Slytherin, well, there was a nearly-known persona, but the _darkness_. Never mind that Gryffindor had slaughtered, had been cruel and vindictive, that Helga and Rowena had not been respectable little ladies and paragons of virtue. It was _Slytherin_ that mattered. Snake speaker. Wreathed in shadow, probably a vampire, practised _black_ magic, or so they said.

Salazar knew that he was not a kind, sweet person. He _knew_ that the years of pain and struggle had hardened him, forged in threads of spite and loathing, but to be rejected by his friends and mentor, just as Petunia, just as Ollivander, just as the Founders had all spurned him before… That shattered him.

Much as he hated to dwell on self-pity, he found himself wondering. The world mocked him for his softness, scarred him so he hardened, became ice and steel… and then it tormented him for his coldness. There had always been someone greater, someone kinder, some _better_, to take away his presence…

Such thoughts were useless. He was as he was, malice and all, and he would rather be flawed than dead.

As though she had not realised her own reaction, Hermione smiled at Godric and said, "This must be tremendously difficult for you, being thrust so unexpectedly into another era."

Was that a blush upon her face? Salazar wondered with dismay just what he had neglected. Surely they had made it clear that they were lovers? He wasn't certain whether she was flirting or not, and despised himself for the thought. But now Godric was glancing across to him with an amused expression, almost a reassurance. _I won't betray you for a sixteen-year old girl still at Hogwarts, you silly fool._

He relaxed almost imperceptibly. Godric showed little interest in women, especially young ones. In fact, these last few years, he had reserved his attentions for men, maybe even when Salazar had been- gone.

He wondered if Godric had taken any other lovers whilst he'd been away. The thought nudged a fission of pain through his heart.

Godric turned back to Hermione and replied politely, "Yes, it is very hard, but I'm sure that Sal will guide me through it." Courteous, yet brief and almost tokenistic, and reminding her of Salazar's presence in his life.

Hermione flushed more deeply, in shame this time, and Ron took the next turn.

"Is it true that you wrestled with a mountain lion on the Crusades?"

Godric's face was carefully devoid of emotion as he said, "No. It's not."

Groaning, Hermione turned to her younger friend and snapped, "Ronald! The Crusades didn't start until 1095 AD, and anyway, that's a very rude question to ask out of the blue!"

Relieved at the interruption, Salazar glanced across at Godric, who was looking overwhelmed and a little irritated. "I think we'd better leave. Dumbledore wanted us back at the castle before dinner." Well, he presumed so.

They departed shortly afterwards by floo, the two Founders travelling directly to their own chambers. Once there, Salazar stretched, and then laughed softly at Godric's expression. "I am sorry, Godric. This isn't particularly fair on you. I'm forcing you to help me pick up the fragments of a long-forgotten life without even asking."

After several still moments, the other man shook his head, amused. "Always so cagey, always so careful, aren't you, Sal?"

"_Cagey? _I-"

As soon as his mouth was open, Godric kissed him, laughter rattling through both of them. "Yes, cagey," he teased when they parted. "I saw the look on your face when you thought the girl was flirting. It's not polite to set your friend's hair aflame."

"Oh, I'd rather fill it with snakes," Salazar snapped, and yanked him closer. His eyes were hard and worried as he said, "I should have told you about the basilisk and now it's too late."

"Oh, Sal…" Godric rolled his eyes. "I already knew. Rowena told me, as much good as it did us, what with your little 'safeguards' in place."

So much for Slytherin cunning and artifice. Salazar swore under his breath and glowered at his lover. "And you knew what I told it to do?"

"Yes," Godric said softly. "Yes, I did. I heard when you told the children. But we can do little now." He sighed. "And in a strange way, you probably avenged the poor girl's death when you killed it. These things come in cycles, you know."

It was Salazar's turn to roll his eyes.

"Alright, I'm sorry, no more aphorisms. But you have to stop writing in the margins of my books."

A lofty sniff. "Never."

Godric tackled him with another laugh. "Oh, Sal," he finally said. "I did miss you. Even if you are a foul-mouthed, petulant bastard."

Salazar simply smiled in the sunlight.

* * *

Salazar had to wonder if Dumbledore even bothered to read his teachers' application forms as he feverishly scribbled down notes. His only knowledge of the Goblin Rebellions was from O.W.L. level History of Magic, and that had been more than fifteen years ago. As it was, he would have to do some last minute cramming. Thankfully, though, he was accustomed to teaching, and his time in the past and with his various mentors had endowed him with a love of history that Binns' tutelage had never inspired. 

He would have to teach most of the students from Binns' syllabus, of course, but with the first and sixth years, both beginning new courses, he could delve into his real interest: classical history.

After four hours of frantically hunting through textbooks, study guides, history tomes and research papers, Salazar finally set down his quill. It would suffice for now. He rose, grimaced at his ink-stained fingers, and muttered, "Scourgify."

Godric was flinging out sword forms outside, beside the lake. Salazar paused by the doors of the main entrance and watched with a smile. Rarely did he tire of watching the other man, especially not now. Undoubtedly, close too, the stench of sweat would be rank and heavy, that fine coppery hair slicked with dirt and greasy, but from a distance, he looked handsome enough. Sleek sun-darkened muscles, elegant movements, a hard-boned, attractive face.

After a few moments, Godric saw him and began to approach with a shouted greeting. Salazar called back, trying to hide his wince. Sweat, mud, grease. Mm. He bore the hug with a patient expression, but when a hand slid down to his backside, he wrinkled his nose. "Godric. Bathe. Now."

The other Founder rolled his eyes, as though Salazar had some silly, feminine foible about hygiene. Honestly. One would have to lack at least four senses _not_ to mind. He suspected that if Godric tried to rinse off in the lake now, a tentacle would whip out and knock him away. Nevertheless, Gryffindor trudged back in the direction of their chambers. Silently relieved, Salazar headed for the Great Hall for dinner.

It would have been spectacular, awe-inspiring, beautiful… if he hadn't seen it nine thousand and sixty times now. Salazar walked up to the high table calmly. Only Dumbledore and the four heads of house were here right now, already preparing and organising the numerous lists, forms and timetables for the next school year, and of those five, just Sprout and Snape were early for dinner.

Salazar sat several seats down from them, ignoring them but for an exchange of polite nods, and poured out a goblet of pumpkin juice, sipping at it with a level expression. Silence reigned over all until, with a scuffle of wings, a bedraggled bird with a surly gleam in its yellow eyes dropped down heavily onto the table, a heavy satchel strapped to its talons, etched with weightless charms. Dumbledore always ordered six copies of the Daily Prophet during the summer, one for each for the teachers, and an extra for when one was inevitably lost, torn, or hexed out of someone's hands.

Wrinkling his nose, Salazar cast a summoning charm on the nearest one with a grim expression. Special evening editions were never cheerful playground reading. Taking another sip of his juice, he glanced at the headline. It was fortunate that he had already swallowed his mouthful.

_Special Edition!!! Harry Potter Time Traveller!!! Boy Who Lived is Salazar Slytherin!!!!!!_

The only thought that pierced the iciness was a brief annoyance at the punctuation. The rest of his mind was given over to a rage so alien and so cold that it felt as though an arctic storm had flooded through his flesh, and left him as snow. There was no place for the naïve Harry Potter in that coolness.

He understood what his aunt had told him all of those years ago, voice almost pitying. "You'll find your own masks." Gather the impotent rage, all of that darkness within, encourage it, let it grow. Mould it a mask, craft and shape it until it's perfect, wear it. Then, when the time is right, lift the mask and let them see the fury within.

Instead of cursing or shrieking, Salazar took another sip of his pumpkin juice and began to read.

_The Daily Prophet can report exclusively that as of the 1__st__ August, our Saviour, Harry Potter, has become Salazar Slytherin. Wait a moment, dear readers, do not dismiss this as the fevered boasting of a Muggle tabloid rag. _

_It has been revealed to us that on the 31__st__ July, Harry Potter (16), was thrown out of his home in Little Whinging, Surrey, by none other than his aunt, the redoubtable Mrs Petunia Dursley nee Evans (43), sister of Lily Evans. It would appear that a fight took place, unsurprising, since neighbours have reported hearing raised voices in the Dursley residence since the summer holidays began. Mr Potter left the house and adjoined to a nearby clearing in Parish Wood, two and a half miles from his childhood home. Runaway, or abandoned child?_

_According to witnesses, it seems that in that clearing, Mr Potter somehow travelled _back_ in time by one thousand years. Forty minutes later, none other than Lord Salazar Slytherin, Founder of Hogwarts, ancestor of You-Know-Who, and renowned Dark Wizard, appears with a companion in tow. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the Prophet has access to _exclusive_ sources, which have revealed that _Lord Slytherin and Harry Potter have precisely the same magical signature.

_Naturally, our dedicated readers are free to form their own opinions, but to this Prophet reporter, the facts seem clear. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is Salazar Slytherin. _

_Turn to page 2 for a full expose_

_Page 4 Interview with an anonymous witness_

_Page 5 Columnists' opinion and letters_

Both Snape and Sprout were staring at him now. Salazar glanced at them from the corner of his eye, and turned to the second page of the newspaper to reveal a brief, yet eerily accurate description.

He was aching with such fury and outrage that he suddenly realised he hadn't even noticed Godric entering. The other Founder was seated beside him, also looking at the paper, the food for once entirely forgotten. Flitwick, Dumbledore and McGonagall had also sat down. The dinner cooled and congealed as the gathering each perused their own copy of the article.

Godric's arm around him was a welcome warmth, and Salazar leaned into it, wondering numbly if the ice would melt if he touched the firebird. He reached for his goblin, noted blankly that it was empty, and poured more juice out. All the while, his mind was rattling. Who had told them? How had they found out? What sources had they tapped, tricked, exploited?

_What would Voldemort do?_

Drawing in a sharp breath, Dumbledore muttered the words for four or five remarkably strong wards. Only when they had slid into place did he begin to speak in a low, resonant voice that belied his years. "Ladies, gentlemen, I am sure that I do not need to stress the need for caution and good judgment."

McGonagall raised her eyebrows with an expression of polite disbelief. "Albus, surely this is not _true_?"

"Oh, it is quite true, Minerva," the elderly Headmaster said wearily. "As I am certain that Salazar and Godric here can attest."

Salazar's mouth thinned. Did the man have no sense of prudence, to fling out the truth before any consultation or planning? He strangled the desire to glance at Snape before it could arise. Ever the Slytherin, ironic as that was at this time. Drowning morality and faithfulness under desire; desire for independence, for freedom, for fulfilment of the ego, for lust, for so many different hungers, Adam feeling the crunch of the rich red apple between his teeth.

Respect and trust are two entirely different apples.

Salazar wondered which one he should take.

He felt the eyes of the four house heads upon him and Godric, and sensed the familiar sickness surge through him. Was that abhorrence in Snape's gaze? Ah, no. Self-loathing.

"Perhaps I should not have trusted Mundungus again," Dumbledore said finally.

Salazar felt weary and full of impotent pain. "You should set him aside," he said in a voice devoid and numb. "He is manipulative, treacherous and uncaring, and you place him beside your heart."

Snape's face was furious and agonised. "Oh, and you on your pedestal. You should not speak of matters that you do not hold the key to, Potter." There was despair in his eyes, the feel of a man whose final, hallowed beliefs have been wrenched from his hands. "Don't be so arrogant as to presume another's fate."

Suddenly almost too tired to speak, Salazar said softly, "Not even when their fate is threaded to mine?"

"_If_ he informed the Prophet," McGonagall said abruptly. "We have no hard evidence, Mr Potter."

"Salazar, if you please," he replied in languid tones.

Godric's voice was sudden, rough and startling from beside him. "Then we must turn to finding the perpetrator. Treachery is like a disease, one that will slowly devour us if we try to banish its existence with thoughtless and trusting words. Who could have done such an act?"

"An excellent question," McGonagall responded absently. "We sealed that clearing off with our most potent wards. It must have been betrayal. Albus, who was on duty?"

Dumbledore half-closed his eyes. "Mm. Mundungus and young Amy Harcourt, I believe, although I shall have to ask Arthur for confirmation. Either one could have been the culprit."

"It's simple, then", Snape drawled. "This would hardly be the first time that Fletcher has been accused of less than flawless conduct. Expel the man and erase his memory."

"Condemnation without proof," Salazar said calmly. "And besides that, Mundungus seems just slightly too obvious. He is a fool, but a deceitful one, and he knows what his hide is worth. Also, I doubt that the Prophet would take even _his_ word so boldly."

Beside him, Godric smiled faintly, but said nothing. Salazar glanced at him, irritated and nauseous inside. The guilt was sickly and dry in his throat. He had wrenched his lover from another time period and pushed him into a tangled world of half-forgotten paths, broken threads and lost dreams. He didn't have the strength for another time spell, but that did not mean that he had to try and pursue his fallen past.

He would not knock back firewhiskey on graduation night with Ron at his side. He would not become an auror or a Quidditch player. He would not marry a woman and settle down with a mortgage, three children and a dog.

Salazar reached a sudden, cold realisation, thick and bitter as he swallowed it. He did not truly want to be here.

Hogwarts was truly his home, but it was a place where he sat beside a low-banked fire and quibbled over the finer points of Greek rhetoric with the other Founders or squabbled about the wards whilst they played dice and slowly drifted into slumber. A place where he spoke lightly with Amos about the relative merits of not slipping into Helga's wardrobe, and wrote in the margins of Rowena's books. A place where he lay in bed with Godric, the world and all within it on the other side of the shutters.

Finally, he flashed a thin, bitter smile at Dumbledore and said in a low voice, "If you will excuse us…"

Before the Headmaster could respond, he tapped Godric lightly on the arm and rose to leave. When he was stood at the entrance, one of the heavy doors pushed open, he turned and said calmly, "Oh, and Professor? I've changed my mind. You _will_ need to start interviewing for History of Magic."

* * *

Godric did not speak until they had reached their quarters, where he said with that ever-irritating faint smile, "That was unexpected."

"Mm." Salazar was not particularly in the mood for discussion. He cast a brief glance at his lover, who appeared to understand, and, with two sharp gestures, ignited the small bundle of logs in the grate and flicked the contents of his desktop to the side table. Amos, who had been sleeping quietly on the couch, glanced up as the Founder sat down beside him and shuffled closer.

Forty minutes later, after scribbling a sharp, venom-flecked critique of one of the historical articles at his elbow, he felt somewhat more content in himself. He was like Snape when matters touched upon his chosen subject, he supposed: he wished to simply delve into a few choice texts by the fire, quill and red ink pot to hand, and seven hells take anything that tried to wrench that away, whether it be lessons to teach, meetings to attend or meals cooling in the Hall. However, unlike his old Potions professor, he steadfastly clenched onto what he held to be his professional pride, reserving his poison for foolish, ignorant historians who couldn't even have the decency to accurately research Morgana's birthdates.

A light touch on his shoulder, and Godric was abruptly leaning over with an amused expression. "Dinner awaits, oh guardian of the sacred birthdates."

Salazar frowned, decided it wasn't quite forceful enough, and poked his tongue out as well as he reluctantly set aside quill and parchment and rose to join the other Founder at the table. Dinner, it transpired, was casserole. Godric looked distinctly unenchanted, especially as he glowered at what was to him the largely mysterious fork, and pushed it aside in favour of a spoon. Rolling his eyes, Salazar took a sip of the watered wine and began to eat, Amos curling in his lap and occasionally arching up in hopes of a chunk of chicken.

'_Stop that'_, Salazar hissed absently, now almost calm enough to read the Prophet article with a bare modicum of restraint, although he had since reclaimed quill and pot, and was ferociously scribbling spelling corrections and venomously critical comments in the margins in spiky slashes of red ink.

Had Amos been able to pout, he would have done. _'Please?'_

'_Amos, you have already eaten, so cease bothering me and find something else to occupy you.'_

A sulking snake in his lap, an unresolved traitor and a schism with the staff. What a wonderful evening.

Godric said, "Dare I now ask just what prompted your decision earlier?"

Curling his lip, Salazar replied, "This Hogwarts…I am not so certain that it is my home any more… Home, home is somewhere with you, me, Rowena and Helga by the fire, not sitting in a cold, empty hall squabbling with people I barely knew seventeen years ago, and recognise even less now."

"This castle feels so blank now", the other Founder said musingly. "Although I suppose that it is different without students here, but nevertheless. And I was also surprised that you declined the post."

Salazar snorted. "Dumbledore must have several thousand application forms resting on his desk right now, all crammed with supplications and pleas. I remember all too clearly what a misery teaching was, and I know that I won't be leaving an empty position in September if I turn it down. It's not fair to the other candidates if I simply gain the place because of who I am and who I was rather than on my own merits alone." He smiled bleakly. "I haven't taught in a long time."

Soft silence for a long moment. They had not truly spoken of the years that lay between them. Two years of coldness and desolation did not weigh lightly in Salazar's mind. It was Godric who finally cut through the quiet.

"I felt full of sickness and despair when I saw you with that woman, yet I couldn't really snatch away your happiness. So I held my tongue. I waited. I told myself that you would tire of her, that you were not attracted to her sex, that you would finally hold your books above her. When _she_ turned upon you…I had never believed that a woman could spill so much blood."

Salazar had believed it from the moment that he had seen Bellatrix Lestrange, had known it the moment he had lain beside his lover and traitor. She had almost been taller than him, he recalled, her hair a pale chestnut. Those eyes…an unremarkable river mud brown, fading, fading, to a single streak of dragon amber. Her nails had been coarse and jagged as she had pressed them against his neck and _squeezed_, the knife slipping through his ribs beneath the miasma of pain. He still bore the imprints of her nails against the ridge of his spine, even long after the stab wound had healed with barely a trace.

Godric continued, slowly. "Did you love her, Sal?"

"I don't know," Salazar replied, just as slowly.

There was something almost horrified in the other Founder's tones, as though he could not truly believe the depths to which he was depraving and hurting himself. "Did you love Eada, or Selwyn, or Aedre?"

"Godric!" Salazar stood abruptly, Amos only just stirring in time to avoid a sharp slap against the floor. "What must I say? That I have never loved any but you?"

He turned to the fire, arms folded against his body. His voice was soft and pained. "I've known you for seventeen years. Do you genuinely believe that a handful of six-month lovers can cast you from my hearth? The others were for friendship, for lust, for loneliness. You were the first person who I slept with for love, and not even _she_ could have truly taken your place."

Salazar laughed quietly. "She was always envious of you. Said that she hated how I would walk away from her just to talk about mundane things with you, classes, gossip, the weather. I suppose she was right. She was attractive, intelligent, desirable, kind, yet she could never quite fill that cold space that you had left, and didn't she know it. I sometimes wonder if perhaps that was what finally drove her to betray me."

Silence. Godric took him into his arms, and they both smiled faintly.


	3. Rain

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, or added it to favourites or story alert _: D _It's very much appreciated, and encourages me to continue._**  
**

** Chapter Three:**_** Rain**_

As Salazar sat on the rooftops of Hogwarts, he felt the rain shiver from the tips of his loose hair and drip down to the ends of his bare toes. He could not place this feeling, as though he were trying to snatch at a thread before him, and it was drifting so lazily and slowly, but his hand would not _move_ swiftly enough.

The same feeling had shuddered through him on the morning that _she_ had died.

The sensation that everything was softly, subtly wrong, a breath in the air, almost an edge to the sunlight.

He was glad that it was raining.

The students would return today. The abruptness of the thought startled him, as though he had suddenly been snatched up and turned around to face a new window, through which he could gaze into his own thoughts. It seemed that even his mind was not clear today, and he had clear away the smudge of the rain and the feelings of _wrongness_ before he could think with any measure of clarity.

Life with Ron and Hermione had not been pleasant lately. Too many years. For them, a month of lazy, languid summer idleness, dust and hot streets. For him, seventeen years in a rabbit hole, tumbling over and over, wondering if perhaps he would fall perpetually. He was an adult now, one who barely recalled Quidditch, and saw homework as something to be corrected and given a neat, jagged red grade at the bottom.

It just wasn't _quite_ the same, and Salazar realised with a flicker of irritated melancholy that he was almost lonely.

How absurdly self-absorbed.

Finally, with a flick of his damp hair and a sigh, he returned to the castle, to drip onto scrubbed stone floors and glower ill naturedly at the portraits. One thousand years ago, there had only been a few bare tapestries and the occasional fresco. He had read somewhere that a headmaster in the nineteenth century had considered the latter to be faded and rather out of keeping with the castle's otherwise ornate appearance. Salazar wondered what had happened to them.

Mm. He had definitely not missed the portraits. Nosy, idle egotists, all feverishly spreading gossip, and staring whenever he passed. Salazar fixed a particularly sharp, cool glare on the nearest one, and it simply sneered back. He raised an eyebrow and continued walking until he saw a figure at the end of the hallway. A middle-aged woman, hair like threaded gold, and combed back into a plait, dressed in soft forest green robes. As the Founder approached, he realised that her clothing was the same shade as her eyes.

She looked up quickly as he neared and smiled. "Hello. Could you possibly direct me to the History of Magic classroom?"

Salazar blinked at her, still somewhat lost in his own tangled world. "You're on the wrong floor. It's on the first one."

The woman also blinked in surprise, and murmured a curse under her breath. "Ah. No wonder I couldn't find it. It's been so long since I was a student…I don't suppose you could show me where it is?"

Cold and weary, the Founder nevertheless nodded, to his own bemusement, and led her to the nearest staircase. The silence was cool and awkward as they walked, but Salazar was accustomed to such uncomfortable moments, and it did not seem to take long to reach the classroom. He paused at the door, and the woman smiled at him again.

"Thank you. Oh! I should have introduced myself. I'm Marnie Caswell, the new History of Magic professor." She looked at him expectantly.

"Salazar Slytherin," the Founder said quietly, and ghosted away.

* * *

Godric didn't look up as Salazar entered their quarters and sat down beside him, finally casting a swift drying spell on himself and pressing his chilled feet against his lover's leg. 

"Morning."

Godric folded his newspaper, and smiled at him, amused. "Morning. Was it cold on the rooftop?"

Disappointed that the other Founder hadn't flinched away at the feel of his feet, Salazar said mildly, "Oh, somewhat."

"I see." Godric leaned back, resting his arms across the back of the couch. One strayed to Salazar's shoulders. "Dumbledore was here earlier. Wanted to know when we would be leaving."

Salazar's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "And what did you say?"

"That I would be discussing it with you."

"Do you want to stay here?"

Godric tipped his head back to gaze up at the ceiling. "Yes," he said after a moment. "I believe so. Hogwarts is my home, even if it seems rather…unfamiliar at present. I still remember laying the first stone. I don't think I want to just turn my back simply because it's a little different."

"Good." Salazar leaned into him and smiled softly. "Then we'll stay."

A brief spasm of worry passed across Godric's face. "Dumble- the Headmaster seemed to want us to leave soon. Said that we could prove to be a disruptive influence."

Salazar wrinkled his nose, and finally shrugged. "Hmph. I don't know about you, but I'm planning to simply sit here and write my history books. I fail to understand how such an activity could be seen as 'disruptive'." He, too, looked anxious for a moment. "Godric, what _are_ you planning to do whilst you are here?"

The other Founder's expression was wry. "You seem worried. I can't imagine why." He laughed at his lover's frown, and relented. "What do I normally do, Sal? Practise my swordsmanship, talk with my friends-"

"-Wave shiny objects at dragons and challenge them to tag games; try to play with loaded dice with seers; drink _far_ too much and then crawl into bed at ungodly hours rambling about tavern maids-"

"Salazar!" Godric glowered at him, and reached for the goblet of wine that rested upon the side table. When he had taken a long sip, he glanced back at his lover irritably and said, "Never mind that. When are the students returning?"

"Today," Salazar said softly. Hogwarts had been almost idyllic. Silent, empty, peaceful, a place where he could sit in the library for hours, entirely undisturbed, and pen venomous articles to certain reputable historians and send them before the day was out. He did not cherish the prospect of nosy, bickering objectionable children scrambling all over the furniture.

Godric groaned theatrically. "Today! Can't they send the buggers away for at least another week? I was rather enjoying the reprieve from whining voices and stroppy eleven-year olds, not to mention from the_teachers_."

The other Founder smiled grimly and said, "I agree entirely with you there, but I'm afraid that they will be arriving at seven o'clock tonight. I propose that we dine here."

"Motion seconded and carried," Godric replied, rubbing his eyes and peering hopefully into his wine goblet. "I haven't the temperament for sitting in that hall being staring at by brats."

It was odd, Salazar mused, but when he had been Harry Potter, he had always imagined Godric Gryffindor to be rather more virtuous. A strong, brave, noble figure, who never descended to public drunkenness, violent romps between the sheets and loud screaming matches with his peers. His lover was not a mild-natured, morally upright man, although Salazar would have been somewhat disappointed if that was the case. Some of the other staff members a thousand years ago had been perfectly honourable, ethical and just, and they had also been perfectly dull and particularly narrow-minded. He had no doubt that they were behind his current reputation, passed down through stern, sweeping documents.

Bastards.

He had made his decision. Salazar was no longer a lonely, simple boy, craning for the approval and respect of his peers. He was content in his life as it stood, being possessed of the philosophy that one should not struggle against the inevitable, and well settled into the habits of seventeen years.

That evening, at seven o'clock precisely, he looked up from his letters, cast a silencing spell to banish the chatter of the students far below, and rose to sit beside Godric at the table. The atmosphere was serene, warm and blissfully quiet.

* * *

Salazar was not entirely surprised when, after having eaten his dinner and spent some minutes talking lightly with his lover, an owl arrived at his window with a letter bearing the personal seal of the Minister of Magic.

_Lord Gryffindor and Lord Slytherin,_

_I wish to offer you my sincerest salutations. I hope that this letter finds you both in excellent health, and pray that you will not take offence if I press straight to the heart of my message. In summary, I first desire to present Lord Slytherin with my heartfelt apologies for the tone of our earlier relations, and I remain optimistic that we can between us reach an agreement that will be of mutual benefit to us._

_Lord Gryffindor, I have not yet had the fortune to make your acquaintance, but I hope that it will not be too long before I have the privilege of meeting you. I have heard many good tales of you, and look forward to your response._

_My Lordships, I shall be blunt. The Wizarding World is in turmoil. I feel that I can rescue it, but _not without help_, and I feel that you could potentially offer me that aid. I would be most indebted to the both of you if you could assist me in any way possible._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Cornelius Fudge_

_Minister of Magic_

Salazar wondered how long it had taken the Ministry's army of secretaries and press officers to compose the letter.

"This 'Fudge'," Godric said after a moment, face grim. "What sort of man is he?"

"A desperate one," Salazar said in a hard voice. "A good politician, always adroit in directing the crowds, but he handles the genuine role of his station poorly. He is inept, short-sighted, and skirts the edges of foolishness."

The other Founder grinned, amused. "Always so tart, aren't you, darling? Though I believe that that gives me a fairly thorough grasp of the man. I assume that we are ignoring him?"

Salazar snorted inelegantly. "Don't be ridiculous, Godric. We court his support. Fudge may be a fool, but in this world, his power is great. Such men should not be disdained. No, we honey our words and we see how he might be of use to us."

"Ever the serpent," Godric replied softly, eyes half-closed, still amused. "Yes. We shall take your path for now."

Anyone who ever dreamt that Gryffindor was a noble, fair-minded man with a strong sense of moral scruples would not survive with their fragile delusions intact if they heard this conversation, Salazar thought. Eleventh century England was not an environment that fostered soft fantasies or deep ethical questions. Despite his kindness and sense of principles, Godric was ever the lion. A predator and an opportunist.

As his lover gazed at him, eyes dark in the evening gloom, Salazar felt something within him stir. It was not his heart.

* * *

The hammering on the door began at five o'clock in the morning. Salazar muttered a curse under his breath, glowered at the still-slumbering Godric beside him, and burrowed deeper under the bedcovers. The noise continued, unabated. He reached for his wand, found only a quill and a coin on the table, and decided to simply wait until the unanticipated visitor disappeared.

Fifteen minutes later, he finally pushed back the blankets and rose, trailing his fingers through his tangled hair and pulling on a robe. His wand found- under the skirting board, of all places- Salazar yawned and walked into the other room to answer the door. Neville Longbottom stood outside.

Had the boy always been so small and nervous?

Salazar raised an eyebrow. "Good morning, Neville. May I enquire as to the occasion?"

Neville flushed and stared hard at the flagstones. "Um, well, I, uh-"

Sighing, the Founder cut across the stammers with a weary, "You may as well come in and sit down."

With a gesture, Salazar summoned a tea set from the kitchens and sat down on the couch, motioning for the boy to do the same. He busied himself in pouring out tea and adding milk and sugar whilst he waited for Neville to gather his thoughts. It only took a few moments.

"Um, I was reading in the Prophet about- about- and the others were all talking about- it, but Ron won't tell me anything and I was-" Neville blushed even more deeply and looked at his hands, folded tightly in his lap so that he didn't fidget.

"Let's start with the basics," Salazar said calmly. "Tea?" He handed the boy a cup without pausing for an answer. "Yes, I was Harry Potter, and I am now Salazar Slytherin. Why wouldn't Ron tell you anything?"

Slightly startled at the abrupt manner in which his unspoken question had been fielded, Neville looked up and met the Founder's eyes without flinching. His voice was soft but certain. "He said that it was none of my business, and that you'd turn me away without even saying anything. But I'm not just an idiot. I went to the Department of Mysteries with you. I saw Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange."

"So you did," Salazar replied gently. "And you have just as much a right to know as Ron and Hermione. So do Ginny and Luna. Nevertheless, Neville, you have to understand that I'm not really Harry Potter any more, and I haven't been for a long time." He took a sip of his tea and added, "I would warn you away, but after the confrontation with Voldemort, I don't think that that would really have any effect."

Neville nodded sharply, face determined. "I understand. And I know that things really aren't going to be the same, and that you probably don't really want to hang out with a kid, but…are we still friends? I mean," he said hurriedly, "Not in the sense that we do homework together and talk about girls, but-"

"I know what you are trying to say," Salazar said with a smile. It was peculiar, but he was beginning to see his old friend as more a nephew or young protégée. He had guided and taught this young boy in the past, and saw Neville's deep and unwavering potential. "The answer is yes. Now, may I ask just why you were knocking on my door at five o'clock in the morning?"

The student looked deeply humiliated, and said in a quiet voice, "I was scared that Ron would find out what I was doing and try to stop me again. It _hurt_ when he said that I was just- _me_, just Neville Longbottom. As if I'm just stupid and cowardly, and not good enough to be anyone's friend."

Lips thinning, Salazar said distantly, "You can be assured that I will speaking with him about that." He smiled down at Neville. "You are far more than that. Don't doubt that. Now I think that you had better be heading back to your dormitory. Can you ask Luna and Ginny to come and see me some time soon?"

Neville nodded quickly. "Yes. Thank you, Ha- Salazar."

Godric was awake when he walked back into their bedchamber five minutes after the boy had departed. Salazar glowered at him as he pulled off the robe and sat down.

"Bastard."

"Hn. You're just jealous because I didn't have to get up to answer the door."

Salazar judged that to be unworthy of a response, and lay down. Amos and the kneazel kitten curled up at his feet as he drifted into slumber, his lover already snoring.

* * *

Salazar was anticipating a quiet, peaceful morning with his books when a visitor at the door snapped the silence for the second time. Thankful that he had at least had time to wash, dress and break his fast this time, he sighed and glanced at Godric, who simply smirked up at him from the dagger that he was cleaning.

"Let's pretend we're not in."

"Prat." Salazar kissed him anyway and rose to answer the door.

Dumbledore stood in the entrance, beaming with irrepressible cheer. "Salazar! And Godric too. Excellent, excellent. May I come in?"

The Founders both tried to disguise their irritation with grace. Salazar invited the elderly Headmaster to the couch and offered him tea.

"No, thank you, my boy. Too much tea upsets my digestion, you know. Now! To business. As I am certain that you both fully understand, Hogwarts is a place of learning. A centre of academic excellence. Sadly, the students, being rather young and excitable, are easily distracted from their studies, and I fear that your presence here could disrupt them."

"Neither Godric nor I intend on interfering in the running of the school," Salazar interrupted smoothly in the slight pause. "Nor, indeed, to make our presence felt any more than is necessary."

"Nevertheless," the Headmaster wheedled softly. "I do fear that the children will chatter, as they are wont to do. It is not good for their education for them to be concerned with other matters."

"They will have to grow up sometime," Godric said shortly. "Real life continues, with distractions or otherwise, and the sooner that they learn that, the more it will benefit them. Besides, do you not feel that this Dark Lord of yours is a greater 'disruption'?"

"But-" Dumbledore sighed, and lapsed into silence.

As the Muggles said, that was that. The days passed peacefully. Salazar penned his articles to the historical journals currently circulating, contributed to one or two papers, and busied himself in raising more snakes. Godric was content to roam the boundaries of the Forbidden Forest, demonstrating his swordsmanship on various 'nasties', or exploring this modern world that he had landed in.

Four days later, Salazar finally bullied his lover into helping him write a response to Fudge's letter. It was brief, courteous and sliced directly to the point.

_Dear Minister Fudge,_

_You missive was gratefully received. Thank you for your concern. We are both in good health, and hope that you are also in such a fortunate state. Lord Slytherin in particular wishes to offer his wishes for your continuing happiness and vigour. _

_Our thanks for your proposal. After much careful consideration, we have decided to accept, and would like to arrange a meeting. May we ask what date would be convenient?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lord Salazar Slytherin_

_Lord Godric Gryffindor_

_Founders of Hogwarts_

Barely seven hours after they had sent a school owl away with the letter, a Ministry eagle arrived bearing an invitation for a private vis á vis with the Minister at two o'clock the following day. Salazar smiled and wrote a quick response, accepting the message and thanking Fudge for his swift response.

_Honeyed words can sweeten steel._

* * *

Diagon Alley was hot, dusty and crowded, summer still laying thick and heavy as honey across southern England. The clouds were faded in the pale blue far above, the tiled, swooping rooftops stretching up towards the bright sun. The smudges of dark trees were almost visible against the chimneys.

Salazar was astonished at the depth of the crowds, even after all of the children had departed for school, and the adults returned to work. Harried shop assistants, businessmen and women in snappy robes, mothers with young, squawking children, pensioners eating ice creams in the languid heat. He swerved to avoid a delivery boy bowed under stacks of cardboard boxes, glanced behind him to make sure that Godric was still on his heels, and stepped into Gringotts'.

Inside, despite the bustling people hurrying back and forth, the bank still gave the impression of deep majesty, silence and stillness. Almost a mausoleum, Salazar mused, and headed for the nearest counter, grateful for the concealing charms that disguised his identity. The goblin seated there gave him a long, slow, bored look, took his key, and grunted ill-temperedly, calling for another to take the two Founders down to the vaults.

Salazar did not recognise the goblin that steered their little cart, and did not particularly care. Years ago, he had been far more concerned with such matters, but by now, he had learned that, like so many humans, goblins weren't terribly interested in the affairs of others, and rebuffed any attempts at repartee.

The vault was dank and dark, untouched for a thousand years. Salazar had placed most of his more valuable possessions in there, and was thankful for such a measure now. Potent preservation charms had kept everything pristine, other than the inexplicable stench of must. Whilst the goblin examined a clipboard and its fingernails in the cart, the two Founders began to search.

"Are you certain it's here?" Godric frowned worriedly at Salazar, and discarded a dented, lewd statue of Dionysus, an artefact abandoned by some long-dead Roman soldier.

"Quite sure," the other man said impatiently, sifting through a heap of silver coins of varying denominations.

"Oh."

Salazar brushed dust from an old scroll, looked at it contemplatively, and set it back. He had definitely placed it here, he just wasn't quite sure where-

"Ah!" Godric rummaged through a battered chest and yanked out a small sandalwood box with the victorious expression of a returning Caesar, handing it to his lover with a flourish.

"Wonderful," Salazar said dryly, and opened it carefully. Inside lay three small bags, all woven from dove grey linen and fastened with charcoal coloured drawstrings. He opened each one carefully, examined the contents, and closed them all again one by one. Finally, he shut the box, enchanted it to the size of a doll's dresser, and slipped it into his pocket.

Diagon Alley was unpleasantly dusty and crowded after the solemn silence of the vaults. Salazar wrinkled his nose in irritation as he headed towards a small, dilapidated shop on the outskirts of Knockturn Alley. A ragged werewolf grinned toothily at him, and he raised an elegant eyebrow in response. Hn. And this place merited such a ferocious reputation? A sad, faded cluster of run down buildings, populated by dank-eyed, leering creatures in torn clothing? Salazar would sooner label it contemptible than _dark_.

The shop was shadowed inside, and the Founder wondered if it was a pitiful attempt to mask the scratched paint, the tape peeled over cracked windows, and the stained, clumped carpet. He glanced at Godric beside him, who bore a desolate expression, and rolled his eyes as he waited for the proprietor to limp in from the dimly lit backroom, a grubby wizard with a nicotine-yellowed beard and patched robe.

"What?"

Salazar ignored the ungracious bark and drawled, "I believe that I left an order with you three weeks ago…?"

"Oh." The wizard grimaced and opened the soup-splashed ledger on the yellow Formica tabletop. So poor that he had to scrabble around cheap Muggle car boot sales, evidently. "Hn. Name?"

"Mordu," The Founder replied lazily.

"Hn," the proprietor repeated again, and squinted at Salazar through rheumy eyes. "I see." He pulled a rolled up cigarette out from behind his ear and shuffled into the backroom. After several minutes of clanking, tapping and cursing, he eventually returned with a cardboard box, fastened loosely with peeling, stained spellotape, and opened it up to pull out a cloth-wrapped oblong.

Salazar took the package gracefully before the shop owner could object and peered at it, edging aside the corner of the cheap cotton. "Satisfactory." He placed it in his pocket, set the payment down on the ash-strewn counter, and departed, Godric trailing him like a rather bored puppy.

It wasn't until they had returned to Diagon Alley that Godric finally said, "So what's in the bundle?"

Flicking him an irritated look, Salazar said sharply, "You know _precisely_ what is in there. Think!"

The other Founder frowned, opened his mouth, and abruptly closed it again. "Oh. Oh, I see. I think."

"Fool. Hurry, it's almost two o'clock."

When Godric wouldn't move swiftly enough, Salazar grasped his hand and yanked him along towards the small residential district in Diagon Alley. The houses here were beautiful, built from a pale honey-coloured stone, and decorated with twisting magical ivy. Through the diamond paned windows, they could just see the sweeping lines of gossamer curtains. Sweet scented grass and herbs nudged against tiny, delicate white and gold flowers in the wide gardens facing the cobbled street.

Salazar continued walking, mentally reciting the neatly penned directions that had been sent to them. Down the first street, across the pretty little stone bridge that spanned the cold, clear brook, through the lane, and up to the third house on the right. He checked the number, squeezed Godric's hand once last time, and released it to knock softly on the door. A dark-haired maid in an embroidered robe greeted them politely, and they were led through the vast, airy hallway, with its thick cream coloured carpet, and up the sweeping staircase into the Minister's private London office.

Silently discarding the illusions, Salazar stood in the doorway and waited whilst the man in the high-backed chair stared out at the street far below. A lime green bowler rested neatly on the nearest stack of papers. So. It was the old dance, was it?

Keep them waiting. Keep them leaping. Pause just long enough to let them understand that _you_ hold the aces. You may hold none, but the importance of the bluff cannot be denied. Weigh out the balance of power before they can open their mouths. He had heard that Fudge would not be Minister for much longer. Desperate men sometimes played their hands with consummate skill, as they ran on the edge of the knife blade.

Fudge spun round in his chair, and smiled amiably at them. "My Lords! How pleasant to see you? Please, please, sit down."

Demonstrate even the tiniest measures of power that you hold.

Salazar took one of the carved oaken chairs, Godric mimicking him. Smiles just on the right side of hawkish. Robes adjusted to fall elegantly. Wands a bare gleam, almost hidden.

The customary greetings and courtesies were presented. Fudge seemed peculiarly distant, occasionally glancing at the papers under his folded hands or the framed photographs that smiled on his desk. Someone had organised that desk, Salazar thought. Shuffled the documents into neat, squared-off piles, arranged the quills by length and the inkpots by colour. The care taken jarred with the Minister's apparent air of slightly absent preoccupation.

Fudge laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, expression slightly pensive, and grasped the initiative. "Lord Slytherin, I am aware that we do not have the most, uh- _amiable_ of relationships, but I do wish to change that."

Salazar had composed his response to that statement two days ago. "I share similar hopes, Minister."

_Hope_. An insubstantial word, an abstract noun, one of dreams and fragile imaginings. One that entirely lacked committal.

It was at that moment that Godric gently steered the conversation away from that subject. "I have yet to truly make your acquaintance, Minister, and I am pleased to finally meet you at last."

Fudge grasped a smile from somewhere. "Ah, yes, it is a privilege of the highest order, Lord Gryffindor."

As the Minister was nodding nervously at Godric and murmuring his assurances, Salazar tipped his hand slightly, feeling his wand drop against his leg. A slow, sinuous motion and a soft word, and a fragile compulsion was laid upon Fudge, as light and pale as a butterfly's wings in the sunlight.

_Speak truthfully. Speak frankly. Speak of what you desire._

The subject shift was abrupt and startling. The Minister straightened and adjusted a stack of papers with the tip of his finger as he said jovially, "How about I cut to the chase, gentlemen? As you will undoubtedly know-" a nod to Salazar- "elections are approaching, and I am finding myself in a rather a spot of peril. You see, this_Scrimgeour_ has expressed rather a keen interest in my position, and I'm finding it somewhat difficult to keep back the tide."

Far too swift and honest, like a poor actor squinting at half-remembered lines and exclaiming them as soon as they entered his head. Fudge had detected the compulsion, and responded in kind. Clenching his jaw slightly, Salazar waited. They had anticipated this.

Godric leaned back in the hand-carved chair and cast the Minister a wide, disarming grin. Yes. Gryffindor. Bold, honest, _foolish_. Blind to intrigues, deaf to politics, and mute in the amphitheatre of government. "Well, of course we'd be happy to help, Minister!"

On another man's lips, it would have sounded trite and hollow. On Godric's, it seemed genuine, warm and charismatic.

Salazar's fingers twitched. A tiny silvery snake slipped from a pale china vase painted with a delicate tracery of hummingbirds and dropped soundlessly into the deep, thick carpet behind Fudge's seat. The Minister did not react as a sleek tongue ghosted across the back of his ankle, once, twice, numbing the flesh before four perfectly pointed teeth sank in around the heel. Mission completed, the snake nodded to itself and slithered under the skirting board.

Fudge's eyes were dark and distant as he ran a finger around the rim of his bowler hat and hummed a soft song under his breath. Seemingly just as openhearted as before, Godric continued speaking, syllables gliding together. People rarely understand that the components of a spell are not rigidly set, especially not the incantation. It is emphasis and pitch that is vital. Order matters little if one knows the true nature of magic.

One syllable from this verb. One syllable from that noun. Another. Another. Another. There was a brief spasm of bemused horror in Fudge's eyes before they finally paled and glazed over. So he had detected the snake, but not the spell. Damnable fool.

Salazar drew his wand out and began to cast swiftly. Enchantments of silence, forgetfulness, pliancy, honesty, blindness. Charms to _watch_,_listen_, _hide_.

Three minutes later, Fudge blinked, shook his head sharply, and smiled at them again. "Ah! So if you can just possibly assist me with the one matter…? Excellent. My gratitude is simply without bounds, gentlemen! With-out bounds!"

They took their leave soon after that. The maid in the embroidered robe escorted them to the door, and they walked slowly back to Diagon Alley, both men renewing their illusions and silently musing over the meeting. Salazar's emotions were tangled. Relief that they had escaped with their hides intact and their plans laid. Quiet fury that he had underestimated Fudge. Pride that his silvery snake had accomplished its mission without a shudder. Wariness mingled with satisfaction.

Still pondering over the exchange of words, Salazar allowed Godric to lead him into Flourish and Blotts'. He needed some more books anyway. He doubted that Madame Pince would overlook Anglo-Saxon scribblings in her library volumes, and besides, the Hogwarts' selection was rather limited, largely intended for eleven-year olds struggling with their Transfiguration homework, not dark wizards with an interest in herpetology.

He was glancing through the section on snakes when Godric approached him, brandishing a copy of _The Hogwarts Four: A Historical Account of the Founders_. Salazar raised his eyebrows.

"I would be highly surprised if you did not already know who Godric Gryffindor is. Put it back. You have no need for such a book."

Godric's eyes were pale and cool as he shook his head. "No. You think about it this time. Don't I have a right to know just what they have written about- the Founders? You forget that this is not my homeland. I don't _understand_ what is in their faces when they speak of- Gryffindor."

The shop was still loud and busy, and both Founders frequently, subtly glanced around for listeners.

Salazar sighed and said softly, "Do you truly want to know? Do you honestly, genuinely wish to read what the likes of Wybert and du Mornay have written?"

The other man was neither foolish nor lacking in courage. He nodded, just once, and turned away, expression blank. Salazar's own face was melancholy. He had read the history books. With another sigh, he took a volume on snakes from the shelves, blindly, and stared at the pages, trying not to react as he caught a glint of golden hair near Godric. Marnie Caswell.

Keeping his gaze upon the printed paragraphs, he listened.

"_What a surprise! Oh, I mean, hello. I'm Marnie. Marnie Caswell. Sal- may have mentioned me. I'm the new professor for History of Magic."_

"_-No. He didn't, actually. A pleasure to meet you."_

"_Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Hm. Doing your history homework, I see."_

"_Yes. Call it- curiosity."_

"_Has S- has he not already told you all that you need to know?"_

"_Not quite."_

"_Oh. Well, how about a drink? On me, of course. Let me do the rest of the explaining."_

In the darkness, he could hear the drums.

Salazar watched through the slowly emptying shelves as Godric paid for his book, glanced around, and left at Caswell's side. Oh. He bought his own volume in a haze and apparated back to Hogsmeade as soon as he stepped outside the shop. Well, he would not intrude. Had half-expected it really.

Amos slipped out of the trees in front of him as he walked up the path to Hogwarts. Neither of them spoke, although Salazar paused long enough to let the snake curl up around his shoulders. Lessons were still taking place. He ghosted through the empty hallways and into his cold quarters, all the while desiring nothing more than to run back down that steep road, apparate into Diagon Alley, and wrench out Marnie Caswell's tongue.

* * *

Later, he realised that he had been a fool.

Godric returned, three hours later and in a poisonous mood. Salazar wrote another note in the margin of his new book, glanced at his small collection of snakes, and said nothing. The other Founder stared at him for a long moment, then stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. A moment later, he heard water sloshing through the pipes.

Humming under his breath, Salazar stroked the nearest snake. He had known his lover for long enough to understand that the anger was not directed at him, and so he waited calmly. Twenty minutes later, Godric emerged, hair damp and tangled, in the same robe. He sprawled across the couch and watched Salazar coaxing a coral snake in silence.

"Salazar."

"Godric."

They gazed at one another, neither quite prepared to snap the awkwardness between them. Finally, Godric said in a low voice, "I suppose you heard what that- that woman said to me?"

Salazar simply nodded and waited patiently.

"I looked around, but you had vanished, so I left with her. Well. That was my first error. Hn. I suppose she wasn't _that_ bad, just a little over-eager. And too willing to believe what she was told. A poor historian."

Godric sighed restlessly and rose to open the window. He rested his fingers on the sill and stared out across the dark hills, as though he could see across the Scottish border down to a coffee shop in Diagon Alley.

"Gave me a 'coffee'. Dreadful. Began to talk about Helga and Rowena, innocuous. Not entirely accurate, but close enough. It was almost pleasant until she started on the subject of us." His knuckles whitened. "She called you a monster, Sal," Godric said softly. "A frightening, pale-eyed, deceitful monster. Said that you would-"

"I'm not a nice person," Salazar interrupted gently. "You _know_ that, Godric. A thousand years of history did not tend me kindly."

Godric turned quickly. His eyes were hard. "Then it should have done." He crossed the room and opened _The Hogwarts Four_. "Would they have _dared_ to call Merlin a murderous, animalistic bastard? Or Gwydion? You helped to _found_ a school that has now formed the centre of their entire magical culture for a millennium, and they treat you like a filthy demon."

"The basilisk," Salazar breathed, barely daring to meet that gaze. Amos curled around his wrist, and he gripped the snake's tail tightly.

Snorting in contempt, Godric said tightly, "You're a merciless, vindictive bastard at times, Sal, but you scarred yourself nineteen times for our students. Eleven of which were for the Muggleborns. And, yes, it was horrific to leave a basilisk down there, and I am not certain if I can forgive you for that, yet I have no doubt that if the course of history held no significance and you were able to travel back to our time, you would return and take it away."

Salazar wasn't so sure about that, but he didn't voice his thoughts. They both heard the unspoken words. Godric simply shook his head and closed the book.

That night, Salazar stood on the rooftops in the rain and stared across the horizon. Godric sat beside him.


	4. Lightning

**Chapter Four: **_**Lightning **_

It has been seventeen years since Salazar has last knowingly faced a Death Eater.

He had almost forgotten, if one could forget such a thing.

Figures in dark cloaks, black hoods slipping to reveal pale masks. Ever since he had been a child, he had wondered why the Death Eaters seemed so terrifying. Men in cloaks, like drunkards playing at Hallowe'en games, or the shapes that plagued Dudley's films, the ones that people laughed at because they were so cheaply, poorly made…perhaps not even the farcicality of a hundred, a thousand films can erase that almost feverish menace.

It is not precisely grace in their movements, but the false elegance lent by a sense of implacable purpose, an unwarranted, almost unseen surety. As though they know all that is within their universe, shadowed as it is down to this street, this night, this place.

Salazar almost laughs at the mundanity of their surroundings. The crispness in the autumn air, the glow of the soft, almost-twilight, the bright leaves beneath his feet, nearly luminescent against the grey Muggle concrete. The dampness of the earlier rain, the roughly cut grass of the verge, the water-slicked gutters and drains. As though it were any street in England, any narrow little residential road, with football nets in the gardens and round plastic buckets, the ragged sponges beside them wet from washing the parked cars.

They've raised anti-apparition barriers. He fingers his wand in his hand, the weight of the knife under his belt cold and heavy. There are three snakes in his robes and a portkey in his boot.

He should feel nothing but cool assurance, calm steady confidence. Failing that, perhaps fear and desperation.

Instead, he feels… mundanity. He is weary, cold, cloak still dripping from the earlier torrent of rain that drove the children with their footballs and the adults with their newspapers and cigarettes indoors. He is tired, after spending some two hours waiting, waiting, feet stinging, water soaked in his hair and shivering down his face.

It took them two hours to arrange this ambush.

Fools.

Salazar would rather be cunning than dead. Somehow, knowing that the Death Eaters are so simple to manipulate makes them seem…_less_. Less frightening, so dark, less potent and awe-inspiring. He wonders if they realise that the ambush is not theirs. That they did not choose this empty street or this wet twilight or this crisp September.

Voldemort would have made his move sooner or later. Salazar inexplicably wishes that it could be later, that he could he sitting in his rooms and drinking mulled wine rather than springing this ridiculous ambush.

He raises his wand under his cloak.

They don't realise that he's seen them yet.

It takes them four killing spells- four breaths- to notice. By that time, it is too late. He has to be careful not to use the obvious one. The simple one. The one that whispers with the voice of steel: _I meant to wanted to needed to kill. _There are far darker and deeper curses than poor, cheap _Avada Kedavra_.

Within twenty breaths, all of them are dead. Salazar's face bears no expression as he silently incinerates the bodies, leaving only pale ash to curl on the damp concrete. A clear message to their master. _I do not care for you. I do not wish to meet you, know you, join you. You are not mine, and I am not yours. _

People had always whispered _snake, plotter, cunning, sly, subtle_. Salazar did not think of himself as subtle, not in that final moment between sky and darkness when the knife lowered. Merciless, become monstrous, yes. Not subtle.

* * *

Salazar stared down at the letter in his hand. Stared at the neat lines and curves of the black ink. He though that he had long since accustomed himself to hate mail. Evidently not.

So he had set a basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, and ordered it to destroy Muggleborns.

It did not render him evil. It did not render him good.

Did any of these people, whether they had addressed their letters to Harry Potter or Salazar Slytherin, ever grasped that he was not a simple, easily-labelled, one-dimensional picture in a book? He was kind, he was cruel. He was merciless, he pitied. He was flawed, imperfect, finite, _human_. Did they _never_ understand that?

When he thought on the basilisk, he felt both grief and warmth, guilt and wonder. _Her_ betrayal was still rich and filthy in his mind. Salazar still wanted to rip, rend, shred. Wanted her to char black. If nothing else, he knew his own faults. He was a repenting, vengeful, hurt, murderous, kind, bitter, merciful killer.

There was no space for all that he was on this label.

He loathed and protected and despised and loved Muggleborns.

This was what he was. Salazar would not deny it.

* * *

Godric still had not forgiven him for the basilisk, he knew. Oh, the other Founder shared his bed, his heart, his life, but Salazar had slowly come to realise that that was out of a deep, pure human selfishness._Godric did not want to be alone_. He did not want to be sitting in his quarters, suddenly rendered cold and dark by the loneliness, and whilst Salazar showed his remorse, showed that he was still human and had not been subsumed by a monstrosity and fellness entirely his own, Godric was willing to also shelve his fury and pain.

So many flaws between the two of them. One murderous and xenophobic, the other selfish and brutal. Such fine, upstanding figures. Such saints. Unworthy to be revered as the Founders of Hogwarts, Salazar thought during the longer nights.

But never mind. He was seventeen years beyond the path of lying to himself and neglecting his own flaws. Salazar was no longer a morose adolescent with an egotistical agenda and a keen sense of personal gloom, but rather an adult who understood that you found what warmth you could in this life _and you held onto it_. He loved Godric, Godric loved him.

That would be enough. It had to be. It was too late for anything else.

* * *

His thoughts had been nothing but black of late. Salazar needed to _get out_.

He awoke alone in the cold bed. A note on the side table read:

_Have gone to the forest. Will return before noon._

_GG_

Salazar rose, washed in the basin of water beside the bed, shivering as Amos slithered over his bare foot. He dressed slowly in clothing that was both of- well, he hesitated to label them past and future. Better the different halves of his life. He pulled on the long, thick black winter cloak, raised the hood over his face after a soft pause, feeling almost like a dark lord's minion. How ridiculous. In the p- other half of his life, he had worn it all throughout the cold months, never more than a sensation of warmth seeping through him from its touch.

He only stopped to summon an apple from the kitchens, and turned to leave his quarters, Amos curling around his shoulder. The irony amused him briefly, gently. Adam, wreathed in darkness, taking the first bite. It tasted crisp. Salazar set his teeth in it again as he opened the main door and stepped out into the corridor, boot heels tapping sharply against the stone floors as he locked and warded his rooms and began to walk away.

Breakfast time, still. Everyone would be in the hall, eating and drinking. Salazar felt oddly vulnerable and alone for a breath, then the moment passed. He turned his head towards Amos, hissed quietly, _'Hungry?'_

The snake shook its sleek head wearily. _'Cold.'_

The Founder cast a warming spell upon his companion, stroked its scales gently, and headed towards the staircase. He was passing the entrance to the dungeons when he heard the whispers. Soft, tentative, sneering words, ringing clear in the emptiness. Salazar moved slowly, silently down the worn steps, forgotten apple still in hand as he crossed the dusty hallway, stood at the mouth of the side corridor.

Fourteen or fifteen Slytherins, of varying age and countenance, all leaning into a small huddle, so occupied with their whispered argument that they did not see the figure standing just behind them. Salazar dragged up long-forgotten memories of names, faces. The iced blond was probably Malfoy, the girl at his side possibly Parkinson, but he recognised few others.

He felt as though they too had changed irrevocably in the torrent of time.

Salazar listened in silence to the low whispers.

"_-Slytherin, just like us-"_

"_-Been too long. Disgraced, shamed, reduced to animals-"_

"_-Want those damned Gryffindors to __**burn**__. So proud. Why can't we be proud that we have a Founder?-"_

"_-Hurts, to be different-"_

"_-__**Potter**__-"_

"_-Snape isn't-"_

No.

He was not what those proud, desperate, hurt children sought. If they wished to find a different path, one that led away from Voldemort, then it was Dumbledore that they needed. He was not their saviour.

Malfoy's voice was higher and softer than he recalled.

"Who's there?"

Salazar turned back, and suddenly fourteen or fifteen wands were aimed upon him. He touched Amos' head to calm the snake and said in measured tones, "Does it really matter?"

"Slytherin," another student said evenly, a girl. Sixth, seventh year, straight brown hair cut at the chin. "Salazar Slytherin. I presume that you were listening to us?"

The Founder simply nodded, still stroking Amos' scales. He wasn't sure whether it was to reassure the snake or himself. How to tell that little second year at the front with the dark green eyes that he did not care for Voldemort, or for Snape, or even for them? He had been _proud_ of his House, once, in another world. The one that he sometimes called 'the bleak world' in his own mind.

He had enjoyed praising his students, had cherished his children's smiles and delighted in their cunning. It had been _worthwhile_. They had not been bitter or desperate or cruel. They had delved into the dark arts, and bathed in the light. Salazar, once Harry Potter, had taught them to embrace the _grey_, to live and breathe and be warm in the sun even as they gazed into the night. And they had learned well, oh, so well.

In those days, the children mingled, Gryffindor and Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. They had always tried for that, the Founders. Salazar had remembered with a shiver the fires burning in his future, and tried to forge the school into a place of which he could be _proud_. Cursing his own sentiment, he realised softly that he _wanted_ to be proud of Slytherin once more, wanted to see his children smile again.

Salazar had never fathered a child. Eyes sad and shadowed, Rowena had told him after several tests that he was sterile. He wasn't certain if he would have wanted to leave a bloodline. Wouldn't want Voldemort to _know_ that they were ancestor and descendent, for all the good that it would do the poor, mad fool. His students had been his only children.

He wondered if some of that softened his face. The straight-haired girl certainly seemed to recognise it, for she raised her chin and said in a low, clear voice, "Lord Slytherin, I would like to request a private audience with you."

The other students looked momentarily astonished, but moments later, were all requesting similar meetings. Salazar raised a hand to quell the tide. "You." He pointed towards the girl who had asked first. "Meet me on the seventh floor at six o'clock tonight. Near the Charms classroom. The rest, either give her your questions or see me again later."

His departure was so swift that they did not have the time to call after him again. As Salazar opened one of the side doors and stepped out into the frosted gardens, he prayed silently, fervently that Draco Malfoy would not seek him out, for he did not think that he could bear to look down at _that_ face and maintain the façade of the cool, collected Founder for a heartbeat longer.

* * *

The girl was punctual, despite the fact that she was doubtlessly missing dinner in order to attend. Salazar gazed at her a moment longer from his shadowed corner. The distinctive sharp features of several Pureblood lines. Robes neatly, expensively tailored, certainly not by Madame Malkin. Her hand hovered over her pocket, where the faint outline of her wand was apparent.

The Founder said softly, "Your name?"

She managed to press down the flinch that threatened, and smiled calmly at him. "Caecilia Harper, my lord. Seventh year."

Caecilia was neither quite old nor composed enough to stop her instinctive reaction: the rapid glance at his forehead, at his face, looking for the features of an older, never entirely forgotten figure. There were few to find, at this point. The scar had faded so deeply as to be almost invisible, James Potter's round, smiling visage lost beneath a hawkish sharpness.

Salazar showed no outward response, simply saying to her, "Follow me."

The hallways were dusty and empty. He led Caecilia to the entrance for the Room of Requirement, summoned it into existence with barely a flicker of concentration, and stepped inside. It had taken Helga and Godric almost ten months to weave the enchantments that created and held it.

Within, it was quiet and dimly lit, with low, comfortable couches, a small fire hissing in the grate, and non-descript dark tapestries on the walls. Salazar seated himself and gestured for Caecilia to do the same. The girl took the chair opposite and gazed at him with pale, intense eyes, which he realised after a long, silent moment were a frosty shade of blue.

"You wanted something?" Salazar leaned back on his couch, tried to convey the impression of serene authority, of calmness and composure. It did not come easily, nor swiftly.

Caecilia's voice was hard and low. "I despair for my House, my lord." Those pale eyes flickered with wintry strength. "They trail in the wake of a madman, consign their names readily to the banner of blood. There is no one to guide us. Dumbledore overlooks us, and Snape is too dark, too lost on his own path."

She smiled thinly and, when there was no response, continued. "We are brushed aside. Labelled as evil, black, sinners for the slaughter. The other Houses have the reputation of- of _greatness_. Ravenclaw is wise, Hufflepuff is loyal, Gryffindor is brave, _but we are nothing_."

That_ached_. Nothing. His legacy, his House, his _children_, nothing. Yet he could see it, all too clearly. The bastards of a man seen as dark, cruel, despotic, with no leader and no hope. But…still. Nothing?

He probed gently with his Legilimency, sensed her sincerity. Caecilia _believed_ this, believed in what she was doing with blood and bone and magic. She despised Voldemort, despised Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle and Parkinson and Snape and all of the other fools.

Her face was desperate, and Salazar belatedly recalled that she was probably barely seventeen.

"My lord, _Salazar_, this cannot continue! I've tried and tried and tried, but _there is no one_. Any past loyalties to Gryffindor aside, did you not feel _pride_ in your House? Did you not once love your students, admire their cunning and their cleverness? _You must have done_. You must save us again, you must, this can't go on."

Almost as though she had glimpsed his thoughts. Salazar looked at her impassively as he swiftly examined his Occlumency barriers. Untouched. Finally, he said quietly, "What do you want me to say, Caecilia? I am not a wonderful, kind person. I am no one's saviour or knight. None of the Founders were. All I can say is that I will help. Nothing more."

Relief, boundless as the oceans, pure and cool in her mind. "I did not expect you to be, my Lord," she said. "All I wanted was a man who was not a monster, a man who was once proud of us and who could be once again."

…Perhaps not quite so young. Salazar stared into her pale eyes until she began to glance away. Yes. Maybe he could forge this House into something that he could cherish again.

It was just a shame that there wasn't a 'reject' option for Malfoy.

* * *

The Great Hall was quiet at seven o'clock. Students ate slowly, complained about the immaculate toast, discussed dreams and weekends, scrambled to finish homework over their porridge. Salazar ghosted in, passing almost unnoticed as he walked up the high table and sat in one of the empty seats that Dumbledore insisted on leaving for him, Godric beside him.

As neither of the Founders were particularly inclined towards answering almost hysterical questions from the students, they spoke softly as they ate, discouraging attention. As always in Hogwarts, it did not quite work. Minutes passed, the Hall filled with people, and it only took one noisy lower-year to slice through the quiet.

The entire student body stared. There was no other word for it. Gawped, as though a pair of dragons had just set the headmaster alight. Dumbledore spread some blackberry jam on his toast and said mildly, in a voice that reverberated throughout the hall, "Some warning would have been nice, Salazar."

The whispering was almost unbearably loud. Salazar set his goblet down carefully and said nothing, wintry gaze passing across the faces of the students. How could he recognise so _few_? Was seventeen years truly so long?

Dumbledore cleared his throat and murmured, "Perhaps a few words? I will admit to a certain measure of curiosity myself."

Incredulous, Salazar almost stared at him. _'A few words?'_ He was neither an orator nor an exhibitionist, and his purpose was not one that he wished to reveal. Under the table, Godric reached for his hand, and began to speak in his rough, soothing voice.

"We are aware that it has been a thousand years, but our Houses have- changed rather more than anticipated, and it is our wish to see if they still reached those standards that we set down with the stones of this castle."

Unnecessarily poetic. The students appeared to be pleased that they merited such measures yet terrified that they would not touch those over-arching, long-distant levels. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw seemed somewhat sad and wistful, eyes undoubtedly falling upon empty seats and imaginations painting illusory images of their missing Founders.

Always Gryffindor and Slytherin. Always at the forefront. The other Houses, brushed aside, ignored. Left to struggle through this war as they would, as others pleased, as plans dictated. Puppets and strings, for what are loyalty and cleverness beside light and dark?

Salazar realised with a frisson of pain that he missed his other two companions. Helga, strongest of them all, earth mover, who always stared into his heart and smiled. Rowena, who _burned_ with the ferocity of her dreams, and took care to step back lest she scorch another. Despite their arguments, their agonies, they had always loved one another, the four Founders.

"_For were there ever any friends such as these?"_

_No._

Salazar's face was bore the tiny trace of a smile as he said emotionlessly, "That statement includes _all_ four Houses."

Because he had never had the chance to say farewell.

* * *

Forget the 'reject' button for Malfoy. Salazar devoutly wished for napalm as the boy cornered him in the grounds, expression torn between grim, arrogant and sneering. This _child_ had none of the qualities that he had sought to instil in his students. Slytherin was a House for the shrewd, the astute, not wretched, foul-mouthed, insolent fools. He desired pupils with _independence_, not younglings still clinging to their parents and demanding all that this life held.

No.

He was a Founder, a professor, the head of Malfoy's House. He was the _adult_ here. Now was not the time for musing over scars. And- though he hesitated to say it- perhaps he had been wrong about the boy. He had been barely more than a child himself when they had first met. Maybe his first perceptions of Malfoy were false.

One glimpse of the boy's eyes, and Salazar decided that they probably weren't too far from the mark.

Yet he had a duty. Malfoy was unpleasant, he was a childish, spiteful, spoiled_vile_ little brat, but he was not truly evil, Salazar was certain of that. As the Founder of Slytherin House, he had a responsibility to ensure the- boy's safety.

Even if he had to clench his teeth and lock away his emotions in a tiny box, wrapped together so tightly that it ached.

"Mr Malfoy."

"Lord Slytherin." Malfoy seemed both anxious and infuriated, and his voice was a little too high, sharp. "Greetings. I- I have some questions for you."

"Oh?" Salazar wrapped his cloak more closely around his body and moved slightly on the stone bench so that the boy could also sit.

After a pause, Malfoy did so, and continued speaking, mouth hard. "I am told that you have- turned away from the cause of your descendent."

Unusually subtle for him. But then, war aged all. "He is not my descendent," Salazar said, too calmly. "I am sterile. I have no heirs. I took no blood or kinship bonds."

"Oh." Malfoy seemed uncertain how to respond. He bunched the fabric of his robes in his hands and stared out at the pale lake. "I don't want to be one of his."

The words were so soft and hesitant that Salazar almost overlooked them. He waited patiently, allowing the silence and the emptiness to drive out the boy's next statement.

"I won't kneel to anyone, whether they say they're a king or dark lord. I'm not a slave, or a doll."

"And how did you reach this- conclusion?"

"He tried to kill my father last summer." Malfoy leaned forward to cup a small flower in the grass in his hand. "I don't want to die. I don't want to be worth so little that my life can be plucked away like a- a weed." His eyes burned like Rowena's. "I am a _Malfoy_, not a servant, and I _won't_ bow to some filthy half-blood whose disgusting parents did not even _marry_ before he was born."

Entirely different sentiments to those that Rowena had held, yet the same dark fire.

"And what do you wish for me to do?" Salazar wished that he could sound anything but too-calm.

Finally, Malfoy looked up and stared him fully in the eye. There was vulnerability and frankness there, and Salazar actually halfway liked the boy for the first time.

"Dumbledore is a fool and Snape is pitiful. I want the protection that they cannot, will not offer."

Ah. Some minds truly never changed. Survival. The most primal and desperate of all human desires. Yet that was something that Salazar could give. Possibly. He leaned back in the stone bench, stared at the pale sky. His younger years in the 'bleak world' had been hard, cold and anguished. Could he genuinely bear to hand a reprieve to this cruel child and thus assuage his own pathetic, empty conscience?

Hn. The_child_ would have to be of use to him first. He was not about to send Malfoy into the field, but alternately, he would not be allowing the boy to simply enjoy the benefits of freedom without paying a true price for the gift, or it would be entirely shallow and without meaning.

Only one thing remained.

It only took a few moments to slither back Malfoy's child-like, weak Occlumency barriers and enter undetected and unchallenged. A curious innocence within, that of a boy who had never genuinely faced misery or sacrifice, and who now, abruptly confronted with the prospect of agony, desired to _escape_.

Salazar straightened and turned his cool gaze back to Malfoy. "And if I offer to you the sanctuary of Hogwarts, and of the tiny, dark chambers that have never seen the sun nor felt living breath, far less the touch of Voldemort?"

"W-What do you mean?"

"Nothing in this universe is simple and absolute, much less free. You do not truly understand the principle of equivalent exchange, do you? _Quid pro quo_, a thing for a thing. To gain something, you must make an equal sacrifice. Here is my price. You turn from Voldemort. You help your Housemates and friends to do the same. Slytherin is a much maligned House, and we must do all is within our power to amend that."

Malfoy paled, closed his eyes, sighed deeply. "I think that I understand now." He opened one eye, gazed thoughtfully. "You really aren't Harry Potter any more, are you? No, I didn't think so. An Unbreakable Vow?"

"Very well." Salazar nodded gracefully and drew his wand, gesturing for the boy to do the same. At an unspoken signal, they both cast swift silencing, concealing and notice-me-not charms, the most potent that either could muster, and they clasped hands.

"I, Salazar Slytherin, swear that I shall offer Draco Malfoy full and complete protection within Hogwarts and its environs from Voldemort and all of his followers."

"I, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, swear that I shall not give my allegiance towards Voldemort and his

followers, nor aid them in any other way, and that I shall assist Salazar Slytherin by all means possible to turn my Housemates away from the Dark Lord."

A flash of pale fire, and they were bound.

Salazar untwined his fingers from Malfoy's and slipped his wand back into his sleeve, sensing that the boy had much to consider. He nodded in farewell and turned to walk back along the narrow, frosted stone path, when a voice called him back.

"Wait a moment! How can I find you again?"

"Ask one of the house elves," Salazar said shortly, and this time departed. He could accomplish no more for now.

* * *

The snake moved like hot black oil on ice. It had slept, dreaming of the dark forest, and now it was _ready_, gliding with a speed and silence entirely unexpected in such a large, powerful serpent, gliding, gliding down the halls of the Ministry of Magic.

The sky was like dark velvet outside, the offices quiet and dim, but for the occasional harried clerk hurrying past carrying thick bundles of paper or the odd house elf flickering in out, wielding broom, mop and duster with grim intent. The snake flicked its tongue out, hissed softly. Almost too simple.

It ghosted over to one of the officials, traced her route to the large, hand-carved oaken doors that stood at the end of the corridor, waited patiently in the lee of a water-cooler as she carefully balanced her pile of folders in the crook of her elbow and reached into the pocket of her tailored blue robes. She drew out a pair of heavy brass keys, engraved with the elegant sigils for secrecy, and unlocked the doors.

The snake was swift and intelligent. It was in past her heels and curled behind the base of a potted fern before she turned and locked the door again. It watched her keenly, that vaunted cleverness licking through its mind as it coded, memorised, analysed. A non-magical snake would never have made such connections.

Tall, this woman, almost taller than the man who rose to greet her. A little plain, a little stout, in mid-years. Hair brown, not rich, not shining, just brown. Tailored robes and muddy green cat-like eyes, a bright shade of lipstick. She moved with what the snake supposed for a human would be sensuality. Elegance. A woman does not have to be slender and pretty to be beautiful, especially not this one.

The man was…non-descript. The vague impression of sandy hair, a wide mouth. The eye was drawn to the sleek dark robes, the tiny diamonds that lined the golden rings on his long fingers, the stack of white files before him.

…

Salazar leaned back in his chair and sighed softly, unsatisfied, barely watching as the man in the pensieve wrapped his hands around the woman's waist, pulled her up towards his face. His companion, she was already neatly labelled, categorised, _identified_, but him…well, he defied all of that. There was _something_…something that seemed to blur him. The eye shifted to the fold of the robe, the smooth wood of the long table, the green of the potted plant.

Wait.

The snake was fast, clever, yet it lacked the skill required to grasp the layers of delusion and wrench them away, and unless one can see these things first hand, it is quite impossible for any other watchers to intervene. Delusion.

Perhaps more common than metamorphagi, yet less often recognised, the witches and wizards who could weave an air of…_normality_. The man delivering the newspaper. The woman who served coffee in the nearby café. The girl on the swings across the street. The one that you barely glanced at, to whom you only gave a few seconds of your time.

'Oh, I don't know, perhaps five foot seven. Or was it five foot nine? No, no, three. No, five. Hair? Ooh. Blond, perhaps? Or maybe a sort of brown. Or red. Sorry, didn't really look at them. Eyes? Any colour, I suppose.'

The ones who no one could yet identify. More importantly, the ones whose names were not listed on any Ministry file or newspaper article. Just the one in the background, the one who happened to walk past, the one that was only seen out of the corner of the eye. For those who grasped their talent with both hands, it was immensely useful. Perfect.

Hadn't his snakes mentioned something of a new contender for the Minister's position? A non-descript man, whom no one ever quite recognised, whose name the reporters could never quite spell right.

The other contenders were clear-cut. Rufus Scrimgeour, hard-liner and extremist. Supported by the aurors, but far too harsh for the shop assistants and factory workers and receptionists of the burning world. The masses. Cornelius Fudge, weak and selfish, despised by so many that it was a wonder that he didn't just surrender his title, buy a property in Australia, and sit quietly. Marena Stilwell, a relative unknown, pushed forward by the Pureblood families, and possessing few merits of her own…

And this man. This man to whom he could put no name, no face, no _identity_.

To quell his own rising exasperation, Salazar turned back to the file that he held on the woman. One of his smaller, younger snakes hissed quietly, and he pulled it into his lap as he read.

_Name:_ Amira White  
_Aliases:_ None  
_Gender:_ Female  
_Date of birth:_ 13th January 1956  
_Species:_ Human  
_Occupation:_ Director of Administration (MoM)  
_Description:_  
Forty years old. Approx. 5"10, slightly overweight. Brown hair, hazel eyes. Plain faced but can be sensuous. Has a small scar on the tip of left index finger

Director of Administration. Was her lover seeking influence, or simply pleasure? Was it a matter of love, lust, loneliness? Perhaps not love, but it was not necessarily a mercenary affair. There had been a measure of affection in Amira White's cat-like eyes, beneath the smoky, soft sensuality and the thrill of adrenaline.

Salazar stared at the swirling loops of the Parseltongue script and wondered just why he was doing this. Even now, after all of these years, he was unable to simply sit still and quiet. He tried to tell himself that it was pure boredom, or paranoia, that he was just securing his future and keeping a weather eye on the horizon. It was hollow, because above all, he desired…something.

Influence. Knowledge. The aces in the pack. And maybe, just maybe, after nineteen years of planning and watching and hoping, he would finally present a true checkmate to Voldemort.

* * *

It was not long before the first true challenge of his authority was presented to Salazar.

Noon. A hot, dusty Saturday. Most of the younger students were stretching in the shade of the cool stone colonnades, or splashing in the lake, their older peers no doubt laying waste to Hogsmeade. Salazar felt it reasonably safe to venture from his quarters. He could stand fearless in the face of a dragon, but the sight of three hundred adolescents behind him and gaining speed was more than his heart could stand.

The library was cool, dim and empty. He could just see Madame Pince cataloguing old books through the door that led to the back rooms, and no students milled between the shelves or chewed quills over Potions homework at the desks. Relieved, Salazar moved leisurely to the Forbidden Section and began to peruse the rows of tomes. Finally, he selected a volume entitled _The Burning World: The Rise of Grindelwald_, and was about to depart when a low voice echoed out nearby.

"My lord, a word, if you please."

Salazar set the book down upon a desk and turned to face the speaker, a dark haired girl dressed in Gryffindor robes, with exceptionally long lashes and a freckle on her right cheek. He faintly recognised her, but he was not certain why. A soft, swift exploration with his Legilimency picked out two, three others in the shadows, and another outside the door. Two girls, two boys, all students, one Hufflepuff and three Slytherins.

At his slight nod, the Gryffindor girl continued. "I'm sorry to be so- well, rude, my lord, but we- I've been told that you haven't been making any advances to the Dark Lord, and I was wondering why."

"And why would I wish to do that?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Why would I _want_ to approach Voldemort?"

"Well, as he is your descendent, my lord." She grasped at her sleeve, tugging at the hem in a manner certain to fray the fabric. "I thought that since you supported his ideas, you'd want to join him…as an- equal, of course."

"_Has_ Voldemort instructed you to do this?"

Too young. Too silly and self-absorbed. Far too little guile and discretion. She flushed and finally nodded. Entirely too certain that he would simply fold in and guilelessly agree to follow Voldemort. A silent probe with his Legilimency- he really _was_ abusing this gift, wasn't he?- revealed that she was the child of a prominent Death Eater, and had been ordered by her mother's master to approach Salazar and ask him for support.

Fools, all of them.

"And if I choose not to?"

Impetuous, Salazar thought, as he flung the girl aside with one hand and ducked the stunning spell that one of her accomplices had sent. With the other hand, he drew his wand and quickly froze the boy. Slytherin. A terrible shame, that he would simply waste all that he was for this.

Perhaps recognising the sudden risk, the Hufflepuff quickly reached into his robe, dug out a small amulet and began to whisper an incantation, the Slytherins moving in front of him as he did so. Summoning assistance? Evidently so, as Salazar only had time to take a few steps forward before a dozen darkly cloaked figures abruptly appeared before him.

Voldemort was far too confident, although Salazar had to confess that it would have been a bold and intelligent plan when applied to most foes. Strike directly to the core of Dumbledore's territory, take a figurehead for the light. Prove both his power and his cunning. Swift, clever and daring, but the Founder had no intentions of succumbing easily and quietly.

Salazar quickly cast a shielding spell and eyed his opponents. All adults, all moving with calm assurance and confidence, all with wands raised. A breath later, he began to move.

Several quick stunning spells removed the students from the skirmish entirely, but gave Salazar barely enough time to duck down behind the desk as the Death eaters flung their own curses across. The stench of acid wriggling across varnish swung through the air as he let one of his larger snakes slither from his cloak and whispered in Parseltongue, _'Find their captain'_.

As the serpent glided under the bookshelves, Salazar winced at the _reducto_ that had just crunched through the wall and began to cast in earnest. His shield still held as he hissed the last few syllables of the spell, and turned his head slightly to see the white-crested torrent that lashed down and swept the Death Eaters from their feet. One was flung into the wall, and slumped to the floor, rinsing the panels red as they fell.

The next spell was also in Parseltongue. Salazar hissed the final sound, and then rose, holding his wand ready. "Stupefy!"

The incantation was enough to send his opponents flinching or ducking behind bookshelves, even before they realised that no skin shredding scarlet light had ripped through the air. The pale arcs of crackling lightning were entirely unanticipated. Bodies were tossed upwards like marionettes on a hundred different strings, twitching, twisting, shrieking, zombies on a live wire. They finally fell silently, dreadfully still.

Only two remained. His blue streaked snake slithered back and tartly informed him that the one on the left appeared to be their leader. Salazar pointed his wand at the other one and murmured a freezing spell even as he loosened his knife under his robe in its sheath. He was just fast enough to spin away from the two curses that were hurled towards him as he cast both the spell and the knife. Neither missed.

Salazar leaned back against the rim of the desk, sighed, and wiped some of the water that had splashed onto his cheek. Five stunned, nine soaked, electrocuted and possibly dead, three definitely dead, and Madame Pince hadn't responded once. He held his wand out steadily as he opened the door to the back room and saw her spelled unconscious and tied up. Perhaps a student had been swift enough to slip in behind his back and do this silently before their accomplice had confronted him.

He walked back to the Death Eaters, knelt down beside the leader, and pulled back the pale mask-

-Walls of stone, streaked in blood and soot, tall pillars arching into a shadowy dark ceiling, and all around, monstrous friezes of twisted, tormented bodies.

Salazar cursed himself for a fool as he stared down at the portkey-mask and heard the cold laughter around him rise.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the slight delay, I've been ill and thus unable to write much. Next part will (hopefully) be posted soon.

A question for the readers: I'm at a slight crossroads, with several different directions to choose from. Would you like to see more of a focus and involvement with the Wizarding World's society and politics, or should I just cut that in the bud right now? Also, more Helga and Rowena, perhaps even an appearance?

The section on Salazar and his nature is a slight reaction against many of the portrayals of him in fandom, including my own at times. The overwhelming temptation is to either entirely excuse or condemn his actions. I don't think that he was an inhuman, nightmarish dark lord, or that he was an innocent saint, but rather a complex figure who committed a number of acts for very complicated, personal reasons, which cannot be simply reduced to 'he was good' or 'he was evil', and I hope that that was conveyed in this chapter.

Again, thank you for the wonderful reviews : )


	5. Snow

**Chapter Five: **_**Crucible **_**or **_**Snow**_

Salazar did not look up from the mask for a long moment, silently trying to crush the fury and shock into a box. He stood in a long, shadowed hall, lit by unearthly green torches, bare but for the ghastly paintings and a sweeping throne at one end, fashioned from dark stone, smooth and engraved with whirling, whispering sigils. There were no doors or windows, the walls lined with ranks of cloaked, masked Death Eaters.

Unsurprisingly, Voldemort was seated on the throne, Bellatrix on one side.

The Founder calmly slipped the mask into his robe and looked up at the man who called himself the Dark Lord of the burning times. Ice and bone and darkness, with eyes of blood and a robe of shadow. As fearful and fell as any Salazar had seen. It had been easy to dismiss Voldemort one thousand years in the past, see him as a fool or an animal. It had been easy to forget that primal malice that brushed over his flesh like glass snatched in barbed wire.

Those eyes…

They said,_I want to paint your mouth red. I want to colour you dead and wrench out your heart with my teeth. _

Salazar's face was devoid of expression. He tipped his head slightly to one side, reached up to clasp his shoulder in his hand, wand between his fingers. Seemingly passive, easy to snap his arm down and fling a surge of green light. As he stood, his snakes began to move. Three, five, ten, curled in his hair, around his arms, belt, neck. Medusa in black. The thought almost surprised him into a grim smile.

"Was there something you wanted, Voldemort?"

The dark lord raised his hairless brows, resting his chin on his hand. In his lap, he twirled his wand in his other hand, back and forth, back and forth, from fingers to palm, palm to fingers, back and forth. Finally, he smiled thinly.

"My esteemed ancestor. Such a- rare pleasure. You have been notably reluctant to join my side. May I ask why?"

Ohh, that aura. Abruptly, Salazar understood just why so many fell to their knees before Voldemort. A man only saw such an aura once in his life. Perhaps twice, if he was remarkable. Or unlucky. One stared into those eyes, and saw the universe. It was almost enough to drown out the malice, the monstrosity. Compassion, once removed, leaves a terrible, terrible hole.

How to respond? Salazar straightened his spine, raised elegant eyebrows. "Does a snake not hide in the shadows, watch, taste the flames in the air before it strikes- or withholds its bite?"

"How very, very like Slytherin himself. And how very unlike the pitiable Harry Potter. Tell me, are you truly even on the side of the light any more?"

Sides._That_ once more. Salazar felt a cool, pure emptiness within, as deep as the rain. In that moment, he reached a solution to a problem that had troubled him for seventeen years. He did not take sides. He had believed himself to be entirely above such things, when in fact, he _defined_ himself by them. One cannot feel the lack of something without recognising that that missing component is part of what defines oneself in its void. Salazar defined himself by his lack of light or darkness. He felt-

_-Like the grey sky outside, drifting on the fringes of the storm so dreadful and so fell that it would render this burning world waste-_

-Devoid of the desire to take a side, take a pose.

_Things were going to change, and not even this hall, these rows, this darkness would remain down the millennia, the endless curling snake that swallowed eternity, the Ouroboros. _

Salazar thought of infinity and everything in between as he said calmly, "I am neither light nor dark."

"…Why not?"

Because humanity was less than that. More than that. "Because someone must be."

Salazar felt a wonderful peace as he said those words.

He had wanted so many things, once, but years had gone by, and he had been stripped of so much more. Sometimes, he wondered if, one day, he would finally be shredded of everything that rendered him human, and he would finally fall-

It had been hope that had been wrenched from him first, a single entry at the top of a list.

Warmth.

Trust.

Wonder.

Peace.

Now he felt all of them as he smiled at Voldemort, uncaring of the monstrous friezes or darkened lines of shadowed figures. The warmth spread through him as he noticed the brief, spasming flicker of recognition in the dark lord's eyes. There would be no redemption, no mercy, not for miserable, tormented, fallen Tom Riddle, but there was sunlight through the storm.

A breath later, the flicker dimmed, and Salazar knew that whatever tiny, broken chances he might have once grasped were gone. There was another entry on the list now.

Voldemort said dispassionately, almost curiously, "Mm. It's an oddity, really, but you do ever feel _guilt_ that you sent your younger self back to the dark ages? Actually, forget all dimensions of self. You sent a _child_ to a world painted by sparseness and blood. A naïve, helpless child."

"I was wondering when someone would finally ask me that." Salazar turned his face away before he shattered.

There was stone beneath the glass, ice under the pain.

Oh, it had been agony, it had _hurt_, it had been miserable and black and there had finally been nothing left, but beyond the bleakness, life had suddenly flowered into beauty, even after he had been cast from Hogwarts. In the shadows, Salazar had found himself. He had found strength.

He had been stripped bare and raw.

Salazar had discovered for the first time that he was not James Potter's perpetual ghost, the mirror that flung back the warped image. He had seen the pity and sadness in their eyes when they had gazed upon him and longed to see another, and finally, he had found the power to both loathe and love them for it.

He had found religion, or rather, it had found him. He had stared into the face of infinite, and realised what he had feared for so many years was true, and it did not hurt. That he was wrong, broken, _false_, unnatural, and utterly, utterly human.

The Dursleys were also human. Petunia was isolated, cold, shattered, and he was closer to her than anyone had ever understood. She had lost her parents, her sister, her friends, and she stood strong, pure in her beliefs, as horrific as they were. It was too late, yet she clung on, just as her nephew did, and somehow, she was beautiful. She was cruel, she was miserable, she was lovely. Wednesday's child, full of sorrow.

"Of course I feel guilt." Salazar smiled faintly. "But it does not rule me, and I do not truly regret what I have done. Do you?"

Voldemort appeared to be carved from ice. "Go."

"Have you ever-"

"Go."

"Do you seek to banish me, or your pain? You do not feel guilt or regret. Not now. It's too late. But what else do you feel?"

Anger. Loathing.

The duel was swift and silent. Neither cried, or screamed, and when it was over, Salazar felt oddly hollow. Blood shivered down his cheek, and opposite him, Voldemort looked both resigned and full of aching despair and malice.

"Go."

This time, Salazar heeded that quiet pain.

* * *

Fudge truly was a fool, Salazar reflected ruefully as he sprawled gracefully across his chair, expression amused. The Minister was babbling some meaningless platitudes at the _Daily Prophet_ journalist in the corner, who was nodding and smiling, whilst behind him Percy Weasley winced and glanced away.

Salazar winked at the auror who stood woodenly at the doorway, and pressed back the sigh that threatened. He had been sitting here for some twenty minutes, listening to Fudge and the journalist witter uselessly, when he simply wished to _sleep_. A bath and a few healing spells wouldn't run amiss either. Resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably, he glanced over at Dumbledore, who was gazing up at the ceiling with a distracted expression, probably far more focused upon the practical realities of the situation than the Minister.

Finally, the journalist turned his attentions to Salazar. He was a slender, languorous man, with a faintly Mediterranean hint to his handsome features, and he was casually aware of his own looks. He lounged in his chair, a quill in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, with which he gestured to illustrate his points. The Founder had seen his photograph at the head of several of the more opinionated _Prophet_ columns. Alden Wright, the young, debonair protégé of Rita Skeeter, subtle and intelligent, yet avaricious beneath the smooth façade.

Wright smiled lazily at Salazar and drawled, "My Lord Slytherin, a pleasure. The name's Wright. Alden Wright. The _Prophet _has a few questions for you."

Salazar smiled back and nodded. "Of course." Within, he was thinking carefully, poised on the edge of vigilance. He suspected that a sharp mind rested beneath that laid-back, charming persona. Then, there was that subtle phrasing. The _Prophet_. No personal culpability. It was just what the public wanted. No harm, right? Not his fault. Just what he was told to ask.

The journalist waved his hand gracefully and flashed pale teeth in a grin. "Why, thank you. Hm. Let's start at the beginning. Is it true that you _are_ Harry Potter?"

"I shall not be commenting upon that, Mr Wright. I was under the impression that this interview was to be about yesterday's events."

Best to state it firmly and clearly, and avoid any accusations of evasiveness now.

Raising his eyebrows, Wright said cheerfully, "Oh, but Lord Slytherin, do you not wish to inform the public of-" Seeing Salazar's expression, he sighed ruefully. "Very well. Yesterday. Is it true that you were attacked by Death Eaters, right in the heart of Hogwarts?"

Salazar nodded, face now devoid of emotion. "Yes. Twelve of them, with students acting as accomplices."

"Oh?" Wright looked up from his notepad quickly. "_Students_?"

"Yes," Dumbledore finally interrupted, gravely. "They have confessed fully to their role, and will be disciplined accordingly."

The rest of the interview passed swiftly. Wright was clever, but he lacked Skeeter's tremendous self-confidence and experience, and between them, Salazar and Dumbledore were able to steer the conversation, although the true measure of the success would be measured in column inches the following morning.

Eventually, it was almost over. Salazar almost sighed in relief as Wright prepared to leave, but abruptly, the journalist turned back to him and said quickly, "One final question, Lord Slytherin. I understand that several of the student culprits were members of your own house. How do you feel about that?"

"They are no longer Slytherins," Salazar said calmly. "That is all that you need to know."

* * *

Oh, how they cried.

Salazar remained firm as he stared down at his former students. "You are no longer members of Slytherin. I do not have the power to expel you from this school, not in this time, but rest assured that you are banished from my house, and frankly, I do not care where you go now."

Dumbledore looked troubled from behind his desk. "Salazar, they are just children. This could potentially destroy their entire education, even their lives."

"Oh?" The Founder raised an eyebrow and looked at him coolly. "They took the orders of Voldemort, willingly conspired with Death Eaters, and assaulted Madam Pince and I. They have chosen their path- now they must learn to take responsibility for their actions. I am neither a childminder nor a counsellor. They do not belong in my house, and so I will not have them."

Expression grim, Dumbledore glanced at the children. "And how do you intend to fulfil your intentions? You are no longer hold an official role here."

Salazar raised an eyebrow and, all eyes upon him, walked across to the shelf where the Sorting Hat rested. He cast a swift cleaning charm upon it with a grimace and snapped, "Hat, I hereby expel these students from my House."

Slowly, unsteadily, the Hat woke and yawned creakily. "I understand, my Lord," it whispered. "But where are they to go?"

"Wherever you see fit," the Founder said stiffly.

It wrinkled its mouth and sighed. "Mm. I see."

The sobbing students were hastily re-sorted under Salazar's harsh gaze, and hurried out as soon as the Hat had finished, not bothering to stutter apologies or threats. The Founder watched them leave, then turned back to the Headmaster.

"You will make arrangements for them to leave Slytherin as soon as possible?" It was not a question, or even a suggestion. Hat still in his hand, Salazar nodded politely and departed.

* * *

"My lord. It has been a long time."

"Obviously," Salazar snapped at the Hat, as he struggled with a finicky grass snake. _'Lie still!'_

The Hat appeared to shrug, despite lacking shoulders, or indeed, a body at all. "It seemed to be worth stating."

Godric snorted from his position on the couch. "A thousand years, and the pair of you are still squabbling-"

"Shut up," Salazar interrupted irritably. "Hat, a question. Did you recognise me at the age of eleven?"

"Of course," the Hat replied cheerfully. "It was rather hard not to give the game away, you know. Could have been rather messy, otherwise."

Salazar snagged the grass snake around the middle and hissed, _'Will you stop that?'_ When it finally, grudgingly lay still, he turned back to the Hat. "Mm, yes. Well, thank you for not saying anything."

The Hat bobbed in a rough bow and exuded smugness. "Terribly difficult, naturally, but I managed to triumph over my-"

"Oh, be quiet, you stupid lump of cloth," Salazar snapped. "It can't have been that hard. Now, I have something for you to do."

"I see." It shifted curiously and hovered on the edge of the mantel.

"Next year's sorting. I don't want any more Death Eaters slipping in, or anyone with the potential to become one-"

"So, the whole of Slytherin, then?"

Salazar flung a scathing glare at Godric and spat, "Oh, and I suppose all Gryffindors are sweetness and light? Keep your mouth shut, or I'll hex your tongue out, you fool. That or use your ridiculous sword to cut it out!"

Godric rolled his eyes and forbore to comment.

"Now," Salazar said abruptly, turning back to the Hat. "Do you understand me? Oh, and I will be rejecting a few of the upper years, so be prepared. If in doubt, leave them unsorted. We can have- oh, I don't know, another group, in place of a fifth house, for all the useless ninnies that don't belong anywhere else- and no, Godric, I do _not_ mean Helga's lot."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the crackle of flames in the fireplace and the moan of the wind rolling down from the hills behind the wooden shutters. Hearing it made Salazar feel faintly wistful for the days when the four Founders had been nothing but four young wanderers, seeking to snatch the horizon from the sky, or dancing under the stars in wooded copses as they chanted silly spells and drank Godric's fermented moss wine. Or when they had swum naked in black lakes under midnight skies, laughing as they chased and tried to drown one another.

They had been young and marvellously carefree, despite their woes. Salazar had seen the length and breadth of England, from the wild, wind lashed coasts of the south to the lonely moors of the north, the desolate fens of the east to the pale hills of the west. He had roamed the deep, silent valleys of Wales and tiny, rocky cliff paths winding around the Scottish mountains, sometimes alone, sometimes with his three friends at his side. They had explored the ruined, remote streets of Londinium and boldly ventured out into the dark, storm-swept seas of Ireland.

For a man once confined to a tiny, filthy cupboard and a semi-detached reeking of fabric cleaner, it had been wonderful.

It had been a chance to grow, to learn and live on his own terms, not on those of his aunt or his professors. He hadn't been caged for the sake of respectability or hounded by tainted scandal. It had given him Godric. It had given him Greek poetry and moss wine and golden skies. And for just that, Salazar would be willing to send his younger self back again, not from necessity, but for the opportunity for love and freedom, despite the cost.

An idea abruptly struck him with the force of the incoming storm, and Salazar carefully set the grass snake back down on the battered rug. "Godric?"

"Hm?"

"Can you fetch the box from our bedroom- please? The one from Gringotts'?"

Godric wrinkled his nose and sighed, but he obediently departed, returning breaths later with both the box and the cloth-wrapped bundle that they had bought on the same day. Ruefully, Salazar reflected that he had almost forgotten about the second item.

"Thank you."

"Will you be doing it today?"

Salazar flicked a glance at his lover, and nodded. "It seems as good a time as any. Unless you had other plans?"

Shrugging, the other man sat down beside him. "Not particularly. Let's start."

"You know what to do? Very well."

Salazar opened the sandalwood box carefully, the preservation spells rising like a thin mist, and glanced at the bags inside. Inside the first lay a sleek, translucent silver-grey ribbon, as long as his forearm, with a few strands of dark hair still snatched in its folds. In the second, a thin golden ring, just wide enough to slip onto a woman's smallest finger, and engraved with runes. Several pale blonde hairs were wrapped delicately around it. The third, he left unopened as he turned to the bundle. He handed it to Godric, and the pair of them began to prepare.

* * *

Pale smoke curled from the deep bowls of hand-wrought gold, perfuming the herb-scented air. They rested at each corner of the diamond-shape drawn onto the cold flagstones with white river clay and the blood of a shade, taken at dusk with a silver knife. The fluted crystal phial, still flecked with red, sat beside it, on top of the thin cotton wrapping that it had lain in. At the eastern and southern corners, two smaller diamonds had been drawn, one in yellow and the other in blue. The ring rested in the first, the ribbon in the second.

In the centre stood what appeared to be a tiny cauldron, barely larger than two palm-spans, and fashioned from pale copper. The liquid inside was as thick and dark as pitch, motionless as a lake under a windless sky, with no apparent scent. Godric, standing at the northern diamond, drawn in red, was expressionless as he began to softly list, as though incanting, the names of the herbs that he dropped in.

"Ash, to cleanse. Angelica, to protect. Lotus, to give insight. Blossoms of orange and lemon, to draw in. Mugwort, to summon."

At the green western diamond, Salazar nodded and drew a thin silver knife from his belt, the same that had drawn the blood of the shade. He paused until the final herb had sunk from sight, and smiled faintly as pale flames clouded the air, like the shredded auras of angels, bright and painful as they hissed. Lights flickered in his vision as he stared at the fire, hot demented fairy flutters, and the scent of burning herbs was rank and pungent in his mouth, aching down into his throat.

He swiftly dragged the knife across his palm and squeezed it until dark, watery blood soaked the metal, then shook it out into the cauldron. As he passed the weapon to Godric, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out his wand. The moment that his lover's blood had also splashed into the cauldron, he began to chant, hearing the other man's lower voice incanting the same words.

"Scutulatus cardo."

The clay lines bubbled and flickered, a wine red light squeezing out and rinsing the chamber in hellish tones. Salazar half-closed his eyes against the torrent of sound that flooded out, a miasma of voices, laughter, sobs, animal whines and barks, child-like wails, pained shrieks, aroused groans, spilling through the vivid red cloud of light and the pale mist of the incense. He clenched his fingers around his wand and tried not to respond, feeling only the smooth wood in his hand and the coldness of the flagstones dripping in through his shoes.

Godric's rough voice snapped through the deluge of noise, and Salazar spoke the words with him through gritted teeth. "Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, ladies of this castle, I summon your voices. Through blood and clay, I summon your voices. Take your ring, take your ribbon, willingly taken and willingly returned. I summon your voices. Adveno! Come!"

A moment of silence, terrible and hollow after the dreadful sound, and then, laughter, low and smoky. Salazar opened his eyes fully to see two dim shapes through the rising mist. Two women, both smiling, both beautiful and hot-eyed. He snapped his wand up and said in a soft, hard voice, "Who are you, and why have you answered our summons?"

Helga and Rowena were most certainly _not_ these two women. For one, they were not supposed to actually appear in the first instance, but simply lend their counsel. The tall, willowreed-slim blonde on the left laughed again, crossing long, smooth legs and grinning with a flash of white teeth. She glanced at her female companion, a brunette garbed in crimson, and they raised their eyebrows in unison.

"Why," the blonde said gaily, "Are you not pleased to see us?"

"Who are you?" Salazar sensed rather than saw Godric twisting his hand behind his back. Wandless telekinesis.

"Does it really matter?" The brown-haired woman pouted and tossed her head.

Were they really women? Salazar scrutinised them closely under the pretext of admiring their beauty. Yes, and witches too, he decided. "We did not summon you. Why did you arrive?"

The two women looked at one another again and rolled their eyes. The blonde licked the corner of her mouth and began to approach Salazar, the other heading towards Godric, who was still in the middle of- whatever it was. Anxious, Salazar snapped out swift stunning spells to intercept both of them, but they ducked away with shrieks of surprise, and fumbled out their own wands.

He cast a quick shield charm to protect Godric, and circled the women cautiously, watching their eyes. The brunette smirked and flung a blasting spell. As he danced away from it, her companion spat out a blistering hex. Salazar dropped to the ground, lashing out another stunning spell as he rebounded from the flagstones, and darted out of range, almost knocking over one of the heavy golden incense burners. As he stepped back, he raised his wand with his left hand and slowly drew his dagger from the back of his belt with the right. His two adversaries, their attempts to curse Godric foiled by the shield charm, advanced upon Salazar slowly, neither one smiling.

The Founder murmured a stone spell, watching with narrowed eyes as one of the women suddenly discovered a hand wrought from granite snaking up her scantily clad leg. To her credit, she did not shriek or panic, but rather cast a terrifyingly accurate blasting curse, and shattered it to powder. However, in that brief pause, Salazar brought his right hand out and flung the dagger at her partner, who yelped and gasped as it slammed into her shoulder with a sharp, heavy 'thunk'. She stepped back and grabbed it by the hilt, face pale as she wrenched on it, trying vainly to yank it out. Blood shivered down bare, pale skin, gathering in the crook of her elbow and the hollow between her breasts, but the dagger remained firmly sunken into her flesh. Salazar could hear the metal scraping against bone as she futilely pulled.

As she hiccupped bile and groaned, he stunned her.

The other woman stepped over her companion's limp body with a hard expression on her face and a twist to her painted lips. Salazar did not dare to glance at Godric, but he could smell fresh herbs in the air. Rose geranium, for protection. Sassafrass, bay and mistletoe, to command. Violet, for truth. However, he did not have time to contemplate this, as his adversary hurled herself at him, shouting a slashing hex and snapping her wand sharply.

Whilst he dodged and circled round her, Salazar could not help but think that he had seen her before. Something in the sleek, assured grace, the elegance of her movements, the glint in her pale eyes. Long, blonde hair; a beautiful aristocratic face…Narcissa Malfoy.

All the power and barely suppressed malevolence of her sister, Salazar mused, as he cast a disarming spell, which, unsurprisingly, failed. The last time he had seen her- a faint memory in his mind- she had been cool, composed, and entirely emotionless, the stylish, mute aristocrat, in sweeping white. The lady of snow. Now, she was the frosty warrior, the queen of swords, lovely and stained in blood.

"Why are you doing this?"

She seemed surprised at his question, and almost paused for a breath. However, the violets that Godric had burned were having a potent effect, and she reluctantly hissed, "To protect my son!"

"What?" Salazar swung out of the path of a twisting hex. "I haven't threatened the boy."

"Not from you!" Her wintry blue eyes were cool with derision. "From the Dark Lord!"

It was not difficult to splinter together the fragments. "He promised to kill Draco if you don't destroy me…right?"

Narcissa spat on the floor and hissed, "Of course."

"Narcissa, I will protect your son if I can." Salazar felt faintly regretful as he caught Godric's eyes over her head and nodded slightly. The stunning spell was swift and incandescent.

The woman convulsed and bared blood-frothed teeth as she slumped to the flagstones, wand still clutched in spasming fingers, struggling against the spell. She panted and swore hotly at them both, sweating as she tried to move shaking legs. Finally, with a final, vehement curse against their mothers, she shrieked and lay still.

Salazar cast another spell, just to be certain, and a diagnostic charm that confirmed that she was unconscious. Godric did the same, and the two Founders stood over her, weary and bemused. Finally, Salazar knelt beside her and swiftly searched her, finding another wand and a thin knife in her robes. He slipped both into his own clothing and checked her accomplice, who had a smoke bomb in her pocket.

Three more spells lashed them together, clotted and bandaged any wounds, and guaranteed their unconscious state for another two days. Godric's expression was grim as he watched. "Old acquaintance of yours?"

"Mm. Narcissa Malfoy, married to Lucius Malfoy, the fourth richest wizard in the United Kingdom and Voldemort's right hand man. Their son, Draco, is in the seventh year. Oh, did I mention she's Bellatrix's sister?"

Godric blinked as he slowly assimilated names and facts. "So, likely to be up to her throat in this dark lord's schemes? I see. And the other woman?"

"Never seen her before. Call an elf."

It took Godric a few seconds to factor that in as well. "Oh, right."

The elf appeared swiftly, with a glint in its eyes and a bland expression. It glanced as Salazar as though he were a rather peculiar stranger, and said loftily, "Cans I be helping you?"

Salazar nodded curtly. "Take these two women and confine them in the castle. Somewhere remote, where they won't have visitors. Separate rooms, so they cannot communicate with one another. No one in but the three of us, you understand? Give them food, clothing and bedding, and treat any wounds they have, but nothing else."

The elf regarded him silently for a moment, and finally nodded in assent, disappearing with a snap of its long fingers. The two women vanished with it. Sighing, Salazar raked a hand through his hair and smiled tiredly at Godric. "We have enough resources to do it again tomorrow. Faster, too, now that it's prepared."

The other Founder agreed, weary and solemn. "You're right."

He cast a preservation spell upon the diamond, and stumbled through their bedchamber into the bathroom. Salazar followed quietly, too drained to do anything but lie listlessly in the bath. They were silent for several minutes, both simply slumping in the hot water and dozing.

Finally, Godric raised his head and said softly, "Sal? Have you ever considered creating wands again?"

"Godric, if you've broken yours again, I'll-"

"No, no! It was just a thought."

Salazar nodded and lay back again.

* * *

Salazar felt as though he were submerged in pale light, sinking deeper and deeper down into the wave, until he nearly drowned. It was like hovering in the centre of a white star, all brightness and heat and the sensation of drifting slowly through the vast fields of the heavens, and up somewhere above, there was the infinite, serene and eternal, untouched by the gaze of time, staring into all-

Slowly, slowly, he returned to himself. Perhaps if he floated any further, he would fall into the sky.

He reached into that pale crest of light, shuddered as it shifted and flickered, flaring around him, slipping into his hands. It crackled in the air, wild fire, or torn lightning. Raw magic, primaeval, ravenous, playful and cruel, ordered and chaotic, wrapped into light and sound and space. Salazar shivered in a sigh as it fluttered against his skin, soft and delicate, feeling all the chained power of the universe spiralled into that single globe of magic.

He opened his eyes.

Scented smoke writhed in the still air. Godric was a dull shape on the other side, only the gleam of the thin knife in his hand and the flicker of midnight blue eyes visible. At an unspoken signal, the ritual began. The ancient ritual, old even in the time of the Founders. There would be no mistakes this time.

Salazar felt the raw magic hiss and shriek in his hands as he slowly knelt, moving with care. The globe he held, if dropped, would melt through the floor at his feet like an incandescent blade through thin ice. Under his direction, it spilled with the glitter of molten metal into the runes carved into the flagstones. Heart thuds later, dark, slippery blood sank under its pale surface, followed by the fragments of the silver knife, pale smoke curling and twisting from the crucible.

They began to chant, Godric incanting grim, hard Latin words, Salazar hissing in sinuous, chilling Parseltongue. Their voices rose through the smoke, as the molten magic thrashed like lava and glowed brighter than a star. Further, further, onward it continued, until all silenced, and in that single moment, the centre of the diamond shimmered with pale, eldritch light, torturously bright.

"Helga, Rowena. Can you hear me?"

Oh, how beautiful it was to hear Rowena's voice then, as though it were slipping down the years, through pain and shadow, strong and pure._"Of course we can, Godric."_

"We _have_ to speak with you, but don't come through-"

"_Non-_ sense, Salazar." That voice snapped into abrupt clarity as Rowena appeared in the centre of the room, pale and lovely, Helga beside her. Their smiles were grim.

"Tell me of this dark lord, Salazar Slytherin."

* * *

A/N:

Scutulatus cardo is Latin, meaning diamond-shaped [boundary line (http://arts(dot)cuhk(dot)edu(dot)hk/Lexis/Latin/). Information on herbs taken from: http://www.pookachild(dot)com/Magical20Herbs(dot)htm

This chapter started out well but went downhill from there, I think. Oh, well. More Bellatrix later ; ) Thanks for all the reviews!

Almost forgot to mention: this story opens just after book 5, OFTP, so no Sirius. Sorry for both that and the length of this chapter . 


	6. Chaos

**Chapter Six: Chaos **

Precisely as Salazar had remembered them.

Helga, all hard molten gold eyes, threaded amber trembling in her honey blonde hair as she raised her chin and smiled proudly. She could gaze into Salazar's eyes without tilting her head, her pose always challenging, bold. Beside her stood the pale and queenly Rowena, dignity wrapped about her like a mantle and flickering in her rich hazel eyes. It was she who stepped forward and repeated the demand.

"Tell us of this dark lord, Salazar."

Salazar almost laughed, from both exhaustion and disbelief, and gestured broadly with one hand at the chamber, the scattered books, papers, scraps of chalk, bundled herbs, incense burners and ritual knives. "Of course, m'lady. _Do _pull up a workbench, or perhaps a stack of reference tomes- we're not occupied with anything right now, are we, Godric?"

Frowning, Godric stepped closer and wrapped an arm around the other man's shaking shoulders, glancing around. "Apologies, Rowena, but he's right. Wait a moment, will you?"

With a flick of his wand, he banished the books and papers back to the shelves. A second flick sent the herbs and knives to the desk drawers, the burners to the cupboard. Finally, he summoned the chairs and couch from where they had been bundled out of the way, and set the magical circle into stasis so that they could sit around it.

Once they were all seated, staring at one another tensely, Helga said calmly, "The question still stands, Salazar."

How to explain, how to bundle the notions and fears and presence of a dark lord, almost a concept of evil in himself, and wrap around it and change it until people from another world could swallow it whole? How to stare into their eyes and swallow the pain, the resentment, the quietly flickering fury? Oh, there was anger, there was rage. It was cold in _her_ shadow, but the wrath far beneath was hot and bright.

Finally, he spoke of green flames in the sky and bodies in the grass, lost boys and wandering girls, pale masks and eyes of blood. Broken voices in the walls, goblets of incandescence, veils of darkness.

It burned to cast aside the feelings that whipped within his heart. He wished he had the strength to hate them, the simplicity and unity of thought. It was not that clean, or that easy. The emotion that rose to the fore was indescribable. Raw, shivering, weak, pained. Almost resignation. And so we hurt one another. That is life. That is existence.

It was not a fragile, soft friendship, or even a bitter one. It was, perhaps, the simplest and the most potent of relationships. Almost kinship. You hurt me, but tomorrow is another day, and I shall survive. And however many paths he walked, however much pain he clenched in his heart, he knew that if he opened that door once more, they would face the wall and hold their tongues as he stepped back inside. No tears, no shouted pain _(I want to throw my anguish against your window scream my hurt until it echoes inside your head high high higher and fragments in your heart)_, just…life. Existence. Four people. A castle. The pale sky outside.

* * *

Helga's face was devoid of expression as she leaned against the wall, arms folded tight over her body, eyes molten and shadowed as she stared up at Salazar. There was something provocative in her posture. She flicked her head towards the almost sepulchral figure that approached, and said softly, "Who is that man?"

Rowena, gaze heavy and intent as she stared at the Headmaster's desk, snorted faintly and neglected to look up. "The Potions professor."

The scent of pungent, slightly rank herbs and clouded fumes hung thick in the air. Salazar wrinkled his nose. Hardly a sparkling deduction, and he would have been amused had Rowena been wrong. He turned his face to Helga and said, just as quietly, "Severus Snape, Potions professor and head of Slytherin House."

"But not for long," the blonde woman surmised, a hard smile upon her face.

Salazar did not respond. Severus Snape. Deserter, murderer, liar, damned, as brutal as broken glass. There was something almost primal in that mind, coursing beneath the cruel intellect, something wild that wanted to be _free_, caged with bonds of shadow and blood, misery and sacrifice, something almost consumed, gnawed away with malicious, vulpine teeth. Like anything primaeval, it responded with fury.

Fury, stripped and forged down by that loneliness and anguish until it was almost like a slice of steel, blue rainbows breaking along its tip. And Dumbledore, with his lemon flavoured sweets, had only ever had eyes for the blunt flat. The length dulled by emotion, humanity, sentiment, brief though they were. He never saw the edge.

The children of Hogwarts saw themselves as victimised. They faced but an inch of that fury, the untamed ripples of the great wave, trapped behind barriers and locks. Severus Snape should never have been allowed to set foot in a school, for one day, that dreadful tsunami, that monstrous force would flood out, and wreak horrors upon whatever it encountered.

James Potter and Sirius Black should have been hung for what they had done. His adolescent years had been Snape's one opportunity to become far more than the forgotten child, the eleven year old who knew more curses than every seventh year had ever glimpsed…and he had faced malice, fear and pain.

It must have all been terribly, terribly easy for Voldemort.

The child within Salazar threatened to rear its blinded, miserable head. Snape. The creature that had shadowed the adolescent years of so many…yet did every person not have to face a nightmare before they crawled out into the waking dreamscape of this warped world? The Potions master had been the ogre of his younger life- and he had preserved Harry's days innumerable times.

Severus Snape was far more than a brutality, a purgatory that all students had to face. He was a man, just as Salazar was, one also seen as depraved, merciless, made monstrous by the thoughts and expectation of others, and while the Founder doubted that he would ever like or even respect Snape, he would at least understand him far more than he had ever desired to.

Salazar slowly broke from his reverie to see Snape standing beside one of the glass-fronted cabinets, staring at nothing in particular. That made seven of them, if he counted McGonagall, sitting so quiet and still that she barely seemed to be there. Now, they waited. Waited for restitution, recognition, but above all, for Dumbledore and the governors.

He was about to allow his thoughts free rein once more when he caught the terrible expression on Rowena's face. There was something horrifically intent in that gaze, and it rested upon Snape. No. No. Was there some kind of awful cosmic law set in place here? She was enraptured. It was not love.

Rowena was drawn to any man that could equal her fevered intellect, her fervour for knowledge. No matter the cost, or the make and measure of the man, she would have him. She would tear herself in half one day. All that intelligence, all that pragmatism, lain waste as she twisted and turned and burned and-

Abruptly, Salazar felt weary and cold. Again. Again, she would fall, and again they would come together.

At that moment, the door opened, and Dumbledore stepped inside, expression grim as he slowly walked across to his desk. A small procession of men and women followed him into the office. The governors. Salazar had never met them, and he twisted slightly to survey them. The blankness where Lucius Malfoy should have stood chilled him even as a sensation of relieved warmth suffused throughout his body. The man had been malicious, had been cold and cruel and brittle, but he had been a constant. The perpetual foe, the eternal enemy at the gates, the malevolent star.

His gaze shifted from face to face, dredging up ancient memories. There were perhaps ten of them, and the office was uncomfortably warm as people shuffled chairs, changed seats and adjusted furniture. When everybody was finally settled, Dumbledore rose from behind his desk and managed a smile.

"I am certain that everyone knows why we are all here. The question now stands: who should hold power over Hogwarts?"

Salazar face was devoid of emotion as he waited, leaning back in his chair. He was not left hovering for long.

A man whom he vaguely recognised as the proprietor of Honeydukes piped up swiftly, "Why, I don't see why anything should change! No offence intended to the gentlemen here- and the ladies, of course, but current historical precedence- got along perfectly well- I mean, modern age and all- need to move with the times- been a long time-"

Helga's gaze was almost akin to that of a basilisk, and she sat motionless, something hard and contemptuous in the twist of her features. She was not a particularly attractive woman, or even very magically powerful, but her willpower was something that Salazar wagered one could split diamond upon. He was certain that she had noted the hurried, almost dismissive tone with which the proprietor had referred to Rowena and herself.

The shopkeeper flushed and glanced away, unable to challenge such a potent stare. He was left to murmur to himself and stare down at the carpet as the other governors slowly began to speak.

A woman rose and said softly, "Who are we to provoke the Founders? They sank their blood and souls into this school, fought against Dane, Saxon and Pict so that we might stand in this room and squabble over matters of power and allegiance." She flashed a pale smile at Salazar, who belatedly recognised her as Marnie Caswell.

However, other voices soon drowned her quiet comments. Angry, frightened voices. One man stood up, spine rigid, and pointed at Salazar with a shaking finger. "And _that man_? Am I to simply nod my head and let that- that animal, that monster into _my_ school? He's nothing more than a treacherous, syphilitic-"

Helga's chair almost fell as she rose to her full height, and she righted it with a steady hand, cold and magnificent. "_That man_ created this place that you so arrogantly call _'your school'_. _That man_ is worthy of more than your contempt and your fear. Do you have even the half-measure of him, or do you just repeat the lies told to you by your nurse?"

The governor opened his mouth and closed it again, glancing around as if seeking support amongst his peers. He caught the gaze of the woman beside him. Her voice was chilled and clear as she said, "Not _lies_, Lady Hufflepuff. Fact. Does not every schoolchild of this land know of the tale of the malicious _Slytherin_, sworn to murder all 'mudbloods' in his own malice and insanity? Not for logical reasons such as you and I might devise, but out of simple, barbaric hatred."

Feeling hollow, Salazar stared at the ceiling as he said slowly, "Simple, barbaric hatred." Silence fell softly, as though a blanket had been cast over all sounds but for his voice. "Malice and insanity." They said such things, these blind and self-satisfied men and women, living in their own sheltered, sunny little worlds. So _easy_ for them to harbour such thoughts.

There were children, even here, in this bleak world, who had possessed pain and rage and desolation such as these governors had never dreamed.

Every person in the chamber leaned forward to snatch at his next, almost-silent words.

"I know. I know you savour how it feels when you can insult me, degrade me, pour out your helplessness and anger upon me…because I am the easiest target…am I not? I'm not Voldemort. I'm not Grindelwald. You think that you can hurt me because you don't_really_ believe that I will respond. What _is_ it within you, that tells you what I will and will not do?"

The woman with the chilled voice closed her eyes for a moment and smiled. "Godric the brave. Rowena the clever. Helga the loyal…and Slytherin the treacherous. So many voices, all saying the same words. Are we to disregard what the intellects of the past tell us?"

"Am I the only person to ever _lie_?" Salazar calmed slightly, found a cool, ice-edged smile. "One person lies. Another mimics. A third embroiders, and soon, a demon is broached out of the darkness. Do you think that life is simply a matter of good and bad people, with evil neatly allotted to one house, the slumbering dragon, dreaming of princesses and blood until the sunlight shatters its sleep?"

She inclined her head slightly, twisted her mouth into a grimace, and glanced away. Conceded. When she closed her mouth, the tension abruptly slipped from the chamber, an almost palpable air of resignation and faded weariness descending. The governors would succumb, as they had succumbed to so much else, and survive. The true followers of this fractured society.

* * *

So they had won. Heads of house, open prerogative, the victory of the past over the present. Salazar felt hollow and cold as he walked through the frosted grounds. More, he felt like he had used fear and spite to achieve an empty conquest. Once more chained himself to this castle, this pale sky, this blank, bleak world.

He wanted to return to the past.

He did what he had always done in times of pain. He went to the Chamber of Secrets.

* * *

It had once had a dark, brooding beauty.

There had been a bridge wrought from pale stone, as fine as any in ancient Rome, carved with cobras and basilisks, ashwinders and adders. Tiny slivers of jewels had formed the scales; black jet and onyx, green peridot, red garnet, crimson splashed amber, limned in gold and silver, the eyes tiny pearls, seed dark or silvery grey. The bridge had reached over still waters, deep and dark as an ink-splashed midnight oceans, quartz and crystal glittering from the distant bed far below.

Ancient statues had raised their arms for benediction and supplication, their faces beautiful and strange, something old and powerful in their stone eyes, as though at any moment, they should stir, to wander sun dappled olive groves or dark, abandoned temples. There had been frescoes of Rome, Babylon, Alexandria; floor mosaics of gold, silver, copper, bronze.

And at the end of the chamber, a statue of Merlin, beard tangled like river weeds, solemn and unblinking. The guardian of the last basilisk.

Salazar sat down on the dusty, cold floor, in his ruined Chamber, and stared up at the statue face. The bridge hung by its stone moorings, the statues fallen and shattered, the frescoes faded, the mosaics cracked and rusted. Was this truly what had become of his dreams? Dulled, broken, lost. Forgotten.

What a majestic legacy.

_(Was Myrtle dead yet?)_

The pain flickered, ebbed, and Salazar wondered why he had even built it, other than from a self-destructive sense of destiny. Perhaps there was another universe where he had had the strength to resist _her_, the wisdom to hold his tongue, and the resolution to bury his Chamber in darkness, but it was not this world, and he was too weak. Slipped too easily, and history wrought its horrors.

It was there, sitting alone in the shadows and the ruin, that Salazar had a magnificent idea. A terrible, wonderful, sinful idea.

He rose and began to walk.

* * *

Narcissa's face was bruised, and her eyes were dark. She stared at the wall as Salazar entered, still dazed from the awakening spell, and did not respond when he sat down in the only chair.

"Narcissa."

Silence.

"Narcissa."

Finally, she slowly, painfully turned her head to look at him. "You." She sounded more weary than surprised. "What do you want?"

"A bargain. Quid pro quo."

The corners of her mouth curved slightly, and she laughed softly, self-mockingly. "Why, what can _I_ offer?"

"There is something that I need to know. Something of immense importance. And you are going to tell me, in return for your life and those of your family."

Narcissa stirred again, swallowed, head raised high. "Then ask."

He paused a moment, considering, and she said it loudly, hoarsely. "_Ask_."

"It will involve your son. I _must_ know whether-"

* * *

Salazar wasn't particularly surprised when he saw Helga waiting in his rooms, alone, sprawled out on the couch with a narrow-eyed, wary expression. When he entered, she straightened and favoured him with a thin smile.

"Salazar. I need to talk to you."

"Evidently," he replied in a dry tone, and walked over to the fireplace, summoning flames with a gesture and a thought. He cast a cleaning spell on his clothes, still dusty from his foray into the Chamber, and sat down opposite her.

"It's about Rowena," Helga said slowly. "And her infatuation with- Snape. It's not healthy, and it's-"

"Precisely what she has been doing for years." Salazar matched her sigh. "I see your point, Helga, but I really don't know _what_ we can do. She's cleverer than all of us, and cynical enough to know it."

Her molten gold eyes hardened. "Not this time. I am not tolerating it again."

"Helga-"

"Her selfishness, I mean. Sal, she has no _conscience_ when she's like this! She just doesn't care! And any sort of pain or resentment she causes, well, that's just that to her. Worthless things." She met his gaze. "I'm tired. Tired of ignoring and brushing aside all of the anguish that she causes." A flicker. "I'm going to tell her."

Before he could respond, Helga rose quickly, neatly, and was gone in moments. Salazar winced and closed his eyes. So she had finally wearied of Rowena. Such a powerful friendship, such affection. Helga's loyalty was not a soft, faded, warm quality, but rather fierce, grasping, consuming, determined. She fought for what she wanted, and often, she won.

Well. Either they would break, or they would hold strong.

Salazar did not like to guess which one it would be.

They were family. Brothers, sisters, friends, lovers, four beneath the pale sky. Never truly three. Three was broken, three was fragmented, three was not whole. Perhaps it was time for Rowena's selfishness, just as it had been time for his selfishness, once. Maybe they would heal. Maybe they would not.

* * *

"Do you have it?"

Draco looked uncomfortable, glanced away, gazed back at him, as though he wasn't quite sure _what_ he was supposed to do. Finally, he nodded. "Here."

"Do they know that you have taken it?"

The boy shook his head, looking rather more certain this time. "No. No one saw me. They think that I'm too scared to do anything, so they don't watch me."

Salazar wasn't so sure about that, but he nodded anyway. "I see."

A rattling, down at the end of the corridor. Draco pushed the box into his hands and fled.

* * *

Salazar sliced the cylinder of wood lengthways with a long, thin knife, holding the pieces together carefully with his other hand so that they did not split. He examined the two fragments, mind flashing and flickering as his hands moved slowly, precisely. Fashioning wands had always calmed him in a way that his books and his snakes never had. He began to smooth down the wood whilst he thought.

Things were coming together, not quickly and not neatly, but nevertheless, taking shape. His world would either crystallise or shatter by January.

Today was Samhain. The children called it Hallowe'en. Salazar had faint memories of trolls surrounded by walls of white, black bats winging through streamers, translucent forms unfolding in dungeons. Clearer memories, of drinking apple-flavoured wine and lying with Godric under the trees.

He picked up the pot of varnish, shook it gently, and sniffed it. Satisfied, he grasped the small, fine brush and began to smear the syrupy liquid over the wood. The days were drawing in, the air crisp and the ground pale with frost. Soon, there would be snow in the wind, days of ice and darkness. Tomorrow would mark his third month here.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was not all futile. Felt a dark, honey-sweet temptation. With four of them together, it would be simple to travel back to the past. Pass the remainder of his days reading Greek and keeping snakes. Close the book of the future and close his eyes. Forget Dumbledore and Hermione and Ron and Hogwarts and the Dursleys and Voldemort. It would all just seem like a hazed dream in another fifteen years time.

Worse, Salazar knew that he could do just that without a shiver, if he truly wanted to. The idea frightened him. He plucked a glittering phoenix feather from a saucer, admired the shimmer of pale flames in the soft light as he smoothed it down and pressed it carefully into the hollow of the wood. The glue smelt rank in his nostrils as he applied it to the wand, pinching the two halves of cherry together.

Had he not already done it once? Salazar realised with a shiver that had outside forces not intervened, he would have been content to dwell in the past with Godric for the rest of his life, savouring his freedom under the skies until death closed upon him with wings of shadow. He would not have cared to remember any dark lord, but now…

Now, he had had the future flung into his face, no longer a distant, faded memory, but real and furious and burning. Now, his friends weren't faint images, but vulnerable people. Now, his once home wasn't a lost warmth, but a solid, corporeal place.

Now, it was so hard to just turn his face away.

He began to cast the spells that would bind the wand components together, words slipping from his tongue even as his mind drifted elsewhere. Ollivander had been good to him, better than the poor man had known, for Salazar _(Harry)_ had been lost. Untried, unhardened, without a wand in his pocket, ignorant of Vikings and bandits, and all the other humdrum, harsh evils of the old world.

He felt weary. Old. In moments such as these, he could almost believe in the tales of the pagans that had dwelled in this cold land long before the church had arrived. The three spinners, weaving destiny, weaving his path before he even stepped upon it, leaving him with no choices, nothing but the darkness and the stone beneath his feet. It was too late now. He would walk. He could do nothing else.

* * *

The locket was cold as winter icicles as Salazar held it in his hand. His locket. Shaped from finest silver, mined in darkness deeper than the primaeval chaos, and inset with tiny emeralds. Hellishly expensive in those times, these emeralds, and they glowed brighter than the fires of the aurora, these small green stones. He closed his fingers around them, and slipped the chain of the locket around his neck.

The other three founders stood around him. They did not smile, or even speak, as they joined hands, and the blackness of chaos rose around Salazar, the shadowed darkness fled to the core of the earth, the centre of the universe.

The world changed.

* * *

1944.

Oh, how the world changed.

Salazar kept his hood up and his head down as he walked through Knockturn Alley. The streets were quiet, almost silent, as the wail of the siren rose through the night. And the wizards of the modern age dreamed that they knew of war.

Bombs. Fire in the sky, and London burned. Salazar hardened his trembling heart and walked. He was afraid, but it would not rule him. He had looked into the eyes of Voldemort, and known scorn. If he could do that, he could walk through fire. And so, he continued, down down down the narrow, twisting street, until he reached Borgin and Burkes. It was late, but not too late, and someone was still there.

A boy, sweeping the doorstep with slow movements, embracing the tattered broom almost as though it were a lover, or a slumbering dream. His eyes were almost closed, and he hummed softly under his breath, a lilting ditty that rose through the night. A melancholy tune of murder and war. Salazar recognised it from distant days.

Tom Riddle, the shop boy. Eighteen years old, fresh from the warm halls of Hogwarts, and holding his dreams close to his breast, even as the world burned.

Salazar approached slowly, taking on the same languorous demeanour as the boy before him, as though he were out for a walk in the cool night air. Even now, Voldemort fascinated him, the astonishment of the burned child, forever seeking fire.

All he had to do was step closer.

One locket.

Riddle opened his eyes, smiled faintly. _You know me_, that gaze said._You know me, and you are _fascinated_ by me, even as you despise me, and is that not my strength? The power of the serpent, the legend of the basilisk. I mesmerise as I destroy. _

The moment passed. The world turned, even as Salazar stared at the boy. Then, he too smiled. "You know why I am here."

"To give me something." Had the older Voldemort ever looked so strong, so assured, so lost in the ecstasy of his dreams?

Riddle took the locket willingly, smiled again as he slipped it over his neck. He felt the enchantment. Realised.

As Salazar departed, he heard that voice, knew that he would hear it until the final day.

"The world changes, Lord Slytherin. Are you so sure that you can change with it?"

* * *

One locket, to negate a future.

One horcrux, to shatter the life that it was twisted to keep.

One hope, cast from Salazar's hands, and he did not know where it had landed.

* * *

"Do you believe that it will work?"

Helga's voice was soft, sharp, as she lay upon the cold stone floor and stared up at the ceiling. She would not pass judgement upon him, not now, but she would doubt him if she wished.

Rowena sounded weary as she spoke into the silence. "It must." She had come to Salazar's summons in her shift, feet bare and dark hair loose. She was too clever to puzzle over their expressions, and too cynical to care overmuch.

Salazar closed his eyes and took Godric's hand, and tried not to think of Rowena placing her arms around Snape's neck, lying beneath him, tasting that steel and fury in his mouth as she cried and moaned. They must have moved like dark fire. He wondered if it had been worth it.

As though she had read his thoughts, Rowena glanced across at him when he opened his eyes, and laughed. There was something sad and mocking in her voice. "Do you think I'm looking for love, Sal? He's angry and cold and he gathers those pieces of me you've never seen. Do you want to see them?"

Not bothering to open his own eyes, Godric said quietly, "You know it won't last. That's why you want to cry."

"I don't cry."

"I didn't say that."

Rowena sighed, glanced away. "I know. But still." She laughed suddenly. "It's funny, you know. Funny, funny, funny that it's you, Sal. Tell me, does it feel strange to be of two worlds? I never asked."

"It's like having two souls," Salazar replied, and refused to say any more, even when Helga smiled and asked which soul it was that they saw.

And later, when Rowena had returned to her strange bed, Helga leaned across and kissed Salazar on the mouth.

"Just because. Has Rowena ever kissed you?"

"Once."

"Then I'll do it twice." She kissed him again, and then she kissed Godric, and laughed. "I want to be more than her, you know? Rowena the clever, Rowena the lovely, Rowena the brilliant. Helga the dull. I'll be Helga the bright, in these modern books of yours. Helga. Lady Hel."

Godric snorted at that. "Hel the corpse-eater, dancing on our graves."

"Quiet, you pagan. I don't believe in Hel, or Odin, or any of them, so I'll be Lady Hel, and I'll dance while she rots."

"And you'll shine."

She kissed Salazar again for that, and sighed. "And Rowena will be faithless and beautiful and clever. You'll be dark and cruel and kind, Sal, and Godric will be the knight. Lady Hel and Queen Faithless and His Darkness and the Red Knight. Let's live forever."

When she too had left, Godric pushed Salazar down onto his back and kissed him.

* * *

The bed was cold as Rowena lay down in it and stared up at the canopy.

The man beside her sat up, following her gaze. "It will end tonight, won't it?"

"The final cast of the dice," she said quietly. "But not the last act."

"And we all must hold our breath as the curtain wavers."

* * *

Helga shivered in the darkness as she sat out upon the roof of Hogwarts, and found a smile from somewhere. They would heal. They would come together. She had seen it in Salazar's eyes. He would not, could not, must not stay here, not in this world. Two souls was almost two too many, for him, and in many ways, the past was kinder than the future.

So they would twist and turn and burn.

She stared at the horizon. Helga the foolish, Helga the blind, Helga the tedious. Was that truly how she was seen in these times, as though loyalty were some quality that somehow dulled the wits and blunted the tongue? She had heard children here speak of badgers like they were biddable, sweet pets, cuddly animals from baby stories.

A badger can kill a wolf.

Helga watched the world turn and dreamed of wolves as dusk spread its shadowed fingers across the sky, dark as chaos.

* * *

Sorry about the delay. Rowena and Helga are so hard to write : (

Snape cameo :D Double points for anyone who spots the Dorian Gray reference


	7. Blood

**Epilogue: Blood**

The epilogue, hence the length of it. Thank you very much for reading and reviewing, and I'm sorry for the long wait.

* * *

She came from her man's bed with her hair unbound and they looked at her with disdain. Rowena sneered into the mirror. Her mood shifted a moment later, and she laughed quietly to herself. Such pleasure, this man gave her. Clever as the darkness, and lying beneath him as they moved together was like drinking down a deep bowl of lusty red wine, all richness and fullness and bright intoxication. It felt as though she danced with the devil. He had devil eyes, black as chaos, and she could read nothing in their depths. Perhaps Sal could.

Sal, Sal, Sal. So melancholy. She didn't know whether to mock him or weep for him. Never mind. They would return soon. She felt it in her soul. And she would find some other dark, bright, lusty man to dance with. Sal hadn't realised that yet, that in this world some things are always certain, and some things go round and round and round.

"'Tis called mortifying of a snake", she mouthed to herself. Oh, she loved these clever new books, but Rowena knew that it would go round.

She simply hoped that Sal's scheme worked. The _audacity_, oh, she _adored_ the audacity, and the nerve it must have taken, to put his arms around the pale king's neck. Voldemort. Maybe in another life, Rowena would have wanted to bed him, but the coldness of power can strike as repulsive in some moods.

Perhaps Sal sought to lose everything. The gods only knew that he was an empty soul. Well, they would see whether this plot, this dark audacious trickery, would bring fulfilment or chaos.

* * *

Godric had been told to watch and wait, and so he would, but that didn't mean that he was constrained to like his task. Sal had walked into that house like a pale nightmare.

The most daring plan of all. To take a horcrux, a most precious thing indeed, and to cast spells of sun and moon and shadow and bloody murder upon it…that took bitter courage. And to have to walk into that _hall_ and see whether it had worked in the moment that the lord of darkness and white smiles lifted his wand- Sal was nothing if not brave.

Sometimes, Godric wondered if there had been a mistake. Perhaps his lover had been the one apportioned courage and boldness by some kindly spirit, and he himself had received cunning and the ability to dissemble like a serpent by a capricious sprite of the air, seeing its cousin's deeds and seeking the full reversal of history.

Sal had never been one for subtlety. Which was probably why all of the windows had just shattered. Godric hissed out through his teeth, but he waited, just as his lover had bade.

Lover. It seemed a strange word to use. It had hurt to see Sal leave, but Godric still twisted with bitterness inside over the basilisk. The tempestuous Rowena was passionless in this matter, and Helga had the ruthlessness to allow history to pave its bloody course, but Godric found it hard, so hard.

The basilisk had been an act of pure brutality. Godric lived in a bleak world, but discovering Sal's secret had filled him with pained horror. The monstrous king of the serpents, eyes as yellow as sour poison, the great beast. He was terrified of snakes, and sometimes, in the throat of the night, he saw basilisks swimming under dark waters. In his foolishness, he imagined this girl, this Myrtle. Imagined her young and small and shy and wandering to find a star in her night. Maybe that was what she had been.

Godric was lonely. He had no kin, and the thought of living forever with Rowena's lustful, passionless charm and Helga's powerful, remorseless, laughing soul gnawed at him. They _needed_ Sal like a square needed four sides, because a triangle was too intimate and frustrating.

The doors shook in their hinges and the walls groaned. Godric drew his wand and waited. There would be a body to burn. Whose, he didn't know yet.

* * *

Salazar's wand was in his hand as Narcissa opened the side door for him. Her face was bloodless and impassive. They moved swiftly through the cavernous halls. Snakes everywhere, snakes of flesh and stone and cloth and bone. Salazar was fond of snakes himself, but his fingers twitched as he followed his mute guide. Serpents woven into tapestries, painted onto canvas and pottery, carved into Doric pillars and columns, sleeping on every pedestal.

Bellatrix awaited him in the antechamber. Narcissa disappeared as soon as Salazar stepped inside.

"LeStrange."

"Lord Slytherin. Shall we?"

Like a courtly lady asking for his hand on the dance-floor. Salazar raised his wand.

"Certainly."

Oh, she was fast. Faster than a hawk, fast as the wind, and she had the impassioned weight of madness behind her wand. It seethed through her like a sickness, gleamed in her dark eyes, from her hollow shadowed face. Azkaban had ripped through her like a plague. Salazar did not pity her. He only found within her the pain that Sirius Black must have once felt.

He didn't really remember Sirius that well now. A vague impression of heavy black hair and a lazy grin was all that drifted to the surface. That and the old desire for vengeance that he had been too young, too weak to fulfil. Sirius had closed the spaces between his worlds. His godfather had been a bond to the back of time, a very real and powerful tie to his parents and his past and his happiness.

Salazar only faintly recalled Sirius Black, but he respected the man for what he had once done for him. That in itself merited revenge.

"Reducto!" A flick of Bellatrix's wand, and the windows shattered.

From his position on the floor, Salazar wondered faintly if she wished his destruction or that of the house. Certainly, the windows had been unattractive, but such force had been unnecessary. Insanity lent her a fresh and terrible strength, and he was swift to rise and create a shield.

"Serpensortia!"

As Bellatrix flinched and looked around for the conjured snake, Amos lunged from the ceiling.

'_Take her eyes'._

'_Gladly.'_

And then, nothing remained but to step on her neck. The snap was loud and cruel.

'_The dark and secret places where he got thee/ Cost him his eyes.'_

'_Hush, Amos.' _

There was only a door remaining between him and the end of his world.

Salazar opened it slowly.

As Rowena brushed out her hair, she thought that she saw a shadow in her mirror. When she looked over her shoulder, it was nothing but a scarf on the coat-hook moving in the breeze, and on the floor, a pair of red marbles left by some errant friend, rolling across the wooden boards.

Below Helga's window, someone was screaming.

Voldemort sat upon his dark throne, and he and Salazar contemplated one another for a heartbeat or two.

"Lord Slytherin. We have fought before. Might we not find some peaceful settlement?"

"You already know my response."

"Very well. But tell me, if you can- or will. Why have you come here to kill me, when you could simply flee back to another era and neglect the future?"

"Any man of two worlds must by necessity have two souls. If I step back into one world and relinquish the other, I must leave one behind."

"Ah. You must lay Harry Potter's soul to rest, must you not?" Voldemort smiled thinly, but not unkindly. "Your vessel does not have the reach for two souls, and so, one shall depart. It cannot be Salazar that leaves, for you are inseparable from him, so it must be the old ghost, the spirit from the past, the lost boy that is discarded."

Discarded, as though he set aside a playing card. Salazar said calmly, "Yes."

"You seek to repudiate the past, but you will not be victorious, for you are without passion."

"And you have some measure of it, yourself?"

"That is the question. And now, my fine lord, we duel."

Helga looked at the bloodied body with disdain. A man, with pale hair and fine dark robes, hung from a pole by his wrists. What had once been diamonds spilled from his twisted hands.

"So, you are the man that Salazar watched so closely. The man who would have been Minister. And you bound yourself to your dark lord."

A groan. The man was too far gone to the shadowed border to respond.

"And I'll reckon that he got something from you first, heartless as he is. Directions, rumours? No matter." Her lip curled. "I've been left to clear away his mess, have I?"

The glitter of steel, and the man lay still. Helga gathered the diamonds from his hands and pockets before she burned him to ashes.

She later found Amira White's body underneath her bed, and cursed Godric for a grinning, jesting bastard without a soul.

Salazar clenched his teeth. Blood soaked his robes, and he was yet to know whether his plan had _worked_. He could not afford the luxury of uncertainty, not when his face was painted red and raw. Oh, he could turn a quick spell, no doubt, but he could not truly battle a man who had hidden his soul _unless_ the locket had fulfilled its rightful purpose.

Voldemort bared his teeth in a grin. "Minuo!"

More blood, like a burning torrent. Salazar bit through his tongue as dizziness overwhelmed his senses for a breath, and felt a second curse wash through him. Fire, dark fire, and his spell of cloud and rain was only just swift enough.

He found a smile, somewhere. Voldemort was powerful and malevolent and strong, but he had one predictability. Vanity. Everything had to be subtle, clever, potent, bright, eye-catching. He played to an audience, captive or not, and demanded their ovation. And while Salazar had not given him the opportunity for witnesses, vanity would out.

He just had to wait. The Founder bit his tongue again as he cast a silent healing spell upon himself, and felt the red tide still. His wet robe slapped against his blood-stained legs, and the wand was slippery in his hand. Salazar paused whenever he could, waited for it, sensed the nuances in the air.

The past. He was stunned by how badly he wanted to _go home_. Maybe he would return to Hogwarts. Maybe he would taste freedom and spring in the green air as he walked the bounds of the earth. But go back he would. There was nothing for him here.

He sensed that Voldemort too wished for the past, for a time when everything was simple, and he had but to stretch out his hands for victory to tumble into his grasp. Now, things were unravelling, the path was twisting, and nothing was certain or right any more. The dark lord had allowed the first flush of wistful youth to slip away, the light of easy confidence and boldness, and now, only weary cunning remained. The castle had fallen, and its king fought for his life. Even if Salazar was killed here, things would not end in a clear and simple way.

It was time. Voldemort was distracted by thoughts of regret and longing, even if it only showed in his eyes. The dark lord's vanity drifted to the fore.

_Oh, but it couldn't go any other way for you, could it?_

Nagini rose like a miasma of smoke, with nothing but spite for Salazar. The Founder hissed, saw Amos streak out like black oil and grasp the other serpent in his mouth. He acted swiftly, in that frozen, uncertain moment, and the locket screamed at Voldemort's throat.

In his mind, Salazar heard the horcruxes shattering, felt Nagini dying, smiled grimly. And the seventh horcrux…yes. Yew and phoenix feather. Voldemort's wand splintered in his hand. The dark lord spat out blood and hatred as he knocked the Founder's wand, took it for his own.

"You _will_ pay for this,_ my fine lord_. Avada kedav-"

Too predictable. Salazar's hand closed around Voldemort's throat, clenched down hard and tight, fingers coiling. Twist, twist. Down, down, down, you go, down the stairway of the night. There's a river at the bottom. Do you have a boat to cross it, with sails made of skin?

Voldemort's nails sank into Salazar's arms as the Founder strangled him. Limpness. Salazar drew his sword and took his head, then his eyes. Amos curled up around his shoulders with a shiver of pain and satisfaction.

They burned Voldemort and Nagini together. Godric held him as they did it.

'_The rest is silence.'_

'_Hush. I don't want to hear any voices now, Amos.'_

'_Prince Hamlet and King Lear and Lord Voldemort. In that phrase, he's the least of them all.'_

'_We are only what our creators choose us to be.'_

* * *

Salazar did not return to the future again. Instead, he wandered through the green coppices and across the blue oceans of the past, and counted himself a fortunate man, for he had but one soul now.

Rowena waved her man of red wine and dark fire farewell and found lustier, blacker souls in the old world.

Godric learned to fear snakes anew, but found that Salazar was, perhaps, worth it all in the end, as they slept beneath the stars and laughed to think of their old castle.

Helga walked the halls of Hogwarts and smiled as she found herself marvellously, wonderfully alone. Well, only until summer ended, at least, but sometimes, the summer can be eternal.

They would come together again, down the years, but for now, they drifted in dark and secret places, and stole other men's eyes for want of a future. Happiness is fragmentary, and one takes it where one can find it, before it must be released. Freedom is something to hold onto, whatever the vicious price.

* * *

As always, reviews are very much appreciated :) Questions, comments, criticism? Feel free.


End file.
